


Back To The Past

by fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn



Series: A Stitch In Time [9]
Category: Legacy of Kain
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub, F/M, M/M, Multi, Sounding, Tentacles, Threesome - F/M/M, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Razielim have arrived in a time only known through myth and legend.  The Ancients have come to welcome them;  but can two vampire races, separated by over seven thousand years, ever truly coexist?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of background explanation: this was originally written for a long-running crossover RPG called Multiverse Haven (now sadly defunct). The basic premise of the game was that characters had been pulled from multiple worlds and marked as Chosen, in order to eventually restore a dying multiverse. The main storyline takes place in Nosgoth, however there may be occasional references to characters, magic systems and some borrowed vampire terminology from other canon sources.
> 
> Warning: these are feudal-era vampires, who survive by hunting/taking what they need, and who have also been corrupted by the Taint. There may be references and/or scenes of fairly brutal treatment of humans as slaves/livestock. Such is life in a world where vampires rule ...

The Sarafan Citadel had been picked clean. Nearly all traces of the Razielim’s combat here, some six months ago, had vanished – to brigands, wild beasts, the local peasantry. The rich tapestries were gone, doorways further broken in or hacked for firewood, even the thick walls were beginning to decay, chipped into their component blocks and hauled away by sled. Soon enough, of course, some lord would retake the citadel, for it was too solid a prize to relinquish entirely to the hands of looters, and eventually, Raziel knew, the Sarafan would make their home here once more.

But perhaps not this generation of Sarafan.

Crawling things skittered away in the corners, darted down hallways as the Razielim vanguard entered. They had arrived at this age battered by time, buoyed by a new hope, but few in number. Now, they were fewer. The armor they wore and weapons they wielded had been repaired many times over, despite the preserving enchantments which the Ancients had woven into the steel. Nevertheless, they moved not in the manner of the exhausted or routed, but maintained discipline, every man and woman amongst them alert and ready. Long, barbed pikes at the fore, the Razielim infiltrated the vast complex, slipping from shadow to shadow. As if of a single mind, they froze as one, listening with preternatural accuracy.

Several moments passed. If there had been any humanoids in residence, they’d fled the approach of the larger Razielim army. _All clear_ , came the sending.

At their head, Raziel nodded to Anani, his face drawn down into hard, focused lines. As with all his Razielim, the six months of near-constant battle had taken its toll. His clan-drape and armor, both battered and mended, were silent evidence of the wounds even he had taken from the Hylden, despite his own skill and that of his personal guard. But Raziel had lived up to his fame as Kain's first Lieutenant, and the Razielim as the Empire's finest warriors, and the Hylden had not been able to prevail against them. The portal in Meridian had been sealed a bare month ago, and the time since spent hunting down any stragglers and human sympathizers that might reopen it. And now ....

Now it was time for Raziel to make good on his promise to them. To take them to the green and fertile lands of the Ancients, far in Nosgoth's past, and give his Clan the rest they had earned.

The small Chronoplast chamber off to one side of the main hall was just as they had left it, except perhaps somewhat dirtier in the absence of the citadel's human keepers. Raziel flicked his gaze to a nearby squad. _Rearguard_. The warriors immediately bowed, clasping taloned fists over their hearts, and retreated back to the castle entrance. Raziel glanced at Anani, and a silent and inscrutable Tarrant, as they approached the Chronoplast controls. The Ancients had trained him upon their use, but .... leaving without Kain at his side felt wrong, even more wrong than battling without him had been.

"Have the others hold back to the entrance of the chamber while I activate the portal," he told Anani, his eyes upon the device.

Anani nodded shortly, delivering the same brief bow as had the squadron of elders. He moved away to relay the orders, leaving Raziel and Tarrant momentarily alone. Under the Power’s fractured silver gaze, Raziel laid hand upon the chamber’s controls.

Before leaving the Ancients nearly a year ago, Raziel had arranged for the construction of this very timestreaming chamber. He’d been assured that the construction would take no more than three years – that, and the fact that Kain had once consulted an astronomer in the Ancients’ era, made setting the best date a simple task. Before them, the portal blasted open with the brilliant howl of time-space displaced.

Behind Raziel, the army had gathered itself rapidly into discrete units, though some of the squadrons seemed thin, bare. The war against the Hylden had taken its greatest toll on the youngest, those with less than a century of experience and accumulated power. There were sires, relatively young themselves, who stood solidly in rank with empty places beside them, grim reminders of lost progeny, or whole bloodlines. At the same time, there were six – six! -- sires who waited beside vampires so newly-risen that the fledglings could scarce stand still, their attentions drifting.

Rearing fledglings on the battlefield was difficult enough, even if Raziel had done it a multitude of times. But there’d been little other choice; Raziel speculated that taking humans back in time would be unwise, lest the mortals breed and arrive at the paradox of having fathered their own ancestors. Turning a human, however, should affect the timestream no more than killing him, and thus, when petitioned, Raziel had allowed the siring.

The forward units moved into position, prepared to follow Raziel.

Raziel glanced at Tarrant, then back at the others, checking to see if they were ready. Then he faced forward once more, and stepped through.

The power of the Chronoplast took him with a familiar dizzying whirl, vast energies pulling at every fiber of his body, tugging him forward in the riptide. For a single, fleeting eternity he was drowning in the endless flow of time ...

... and then he was stepping forward again, booted feet setting down upon stone with the faintest of stumbles as the portal thrust him forward and into a new time. It was the same chamber that he'd left; but this one was newly built, stone still showing the fresh marks of chisel and hammer. In point of fact, said tools were still there, lying discarded upon the floor--and Raziel heard the shouts of retreating artisans as they fled the magic portal that had burst into existence--and the strange creature it had now disgorged. Blade in hand, he stepped downward, off the platform, just in time to greet the Ancient guards as they charged into the chamber, spears ready.

The winged vampires stopped short, immediately falling to their knees. "Chosen one!" one said, his attempt at the human tongue imperfect, but understandable. "We did not know you would return to us so soon!"

Behind Raziel, the wall of the portal rippled, disgorging first one of Raziel’s personal guards, then another, looking ill with the disorientation of timestreaming. Then three more, heavy steel boots ringing loud against the stone floor. One man staggered on trembling legs, only to be caught by his brethren and hauled a few steps away, making room for more of the unit as they emerged from the conflicting wash of blue and hot molten gold.

The Ancients were not difficult to spot. “By the name of K—“ started Simeon, Raziel’s fortieth and sire to Hadrian, as he moved as well as he was able to take up a position close to Raziel, lest the… whatever-they-were decided to attack. He was not so disoriented, though, as to fail to realize what he’d started to say, and his jaws clicked shut on the epithet. Those were… the Ancients? They looked like the angels worshiped by one or another of the human religions. But it seemed they knew their place….

For their part, the Ancients exchanged glances as more scarred, beclawed elders filed from the portal.

"Rise," Raziel told them, gesturing upward. "The date of our return was not exact, but Janos and the other Guardians will be expecting us. One of you go, carry a message to Janos regarding our arrival. The other shall remain. We will require an escort for myself and my Clan, once they have all made passage." The Ancient guards nodded, eyes wide at the thought of even *more* strange vampires, did as they were bid. As the second squad of Razielim stumbled free of the portal, the shorter of the two guards bowed and turned away, taking off at a run, wings half-spread. Raziel turned, waving the others further away to make room for the new arrivals.

"Yes, those are Ancients," he told Simeon quietly, knowing that the others would also hear. "Living and yet immortal, the first vampires to exist. They are a dying race, and it is their lands that they have offered to us; make sure to show them the respect commensurate with such a gift."

The honor guard was completely through. A few moments, and the next unit began to emerge, younger vampires blinking and inhaling deeply. The air was crisp with snow and water and new grass, and so very sweet. Simeon nodded as he found his feet, aware of what his Sire was implying. _Yes, Sire. T’would be wise to recuperate, before embarking on further conquest._ Not many Razielim relished the thought of further warfare, just at the moment, no matter how well they normally enjoyed the battlefield.

The guard paled, the unconscious reflex appearing odd upon his sky blue skin. Tarrant, just through the portal, smirked.

Raziel rounded upon him with a snarl, wings mantling. _There will be NO conquest of Ancient lands--nothing that is not freely given! They have suffered enough at the hands of the Hylden, and will suffer more from the humans in the centuries to come--the Razielim will not add to that suffering! Am I clear, Simeon?_ The sending was laced through with rage, sharp and hot, enough to slice painfully through the younger vampire's mind. There would be lands aplenty for the Razielim to take without encroaching upon the Ancients--lands newly emptied of the Hylden, or held by humans--and he would not see the ancient vampires' generosity rewarded in such a bestial fashion!

Simeon flinched visibly before the force of that sending. _I… yes, Master,_ he returned meekly, tilting his head to bare the side of his throat.

More Razielim were spilling from the portal, now in fairly orderly columns of four. The first of the newly risen, not four months old, was very nearly carried through. Squads regrouped quickly, ordering themselves in the broader open space of the chamber. None broke ranks, yet, but a few of the young, their hands still five-fingered, craned their necks to peer down the long corridor, striving for a glimpse of their new world. Most Razielim, however, regarded the sole remaining Ancient with a great deal of interest – frankly curious or speculative stares.

The guard tucked his wings a little tighter and lifted a hand, clearing his throat uneasily. “There is more space available on the plain without, should you require, Divine Benefactor,” he offered.

Raziel inclined his head to show he had heard. "Simeon, go with him to lead the advance warriors out onto the plain, and set up guard stations." He gave his fledgling a hard look. "More Ancients will likely arrive soon; I make you responsible for their welfare. They are *not* to be attacked." He had a feeling that the Ancient would likely be more at ease in the open air, as well, even surrounded by Razielim.

Turning away in dismissal, he caught the eye of a third generation Razielim. Named Castillan, she was one of the relatively few females in the Clan, and had risen to Raziel's notice for the clarity of her judgment more than the strength of her arm; she had an innate understanding of her fellow clansman that almost bordered on the precognitive. _How go the arrivals?_ Raziel sent to her, tamping down on the remainder of his temper. _The fledglings--how fare they?_ He had never before attempted to bring vampires so young and vulnerable through the Chronoplast ... but there had been no other choice. Leaving them behind would have been a death sentence.

At Raziel’s side, Simeon clasped a fist over his heart, and departed, clearly aware of his misstep. He nodded to the Ancient guard, offered a greeting, and followed the winged vampire towards the exit, calling for one of the first units to fall in behind.

Castillan lifted her head where she stood in rank. _My Lord. They are confused, but well._ She paused. Fledglings did not travel well in general, preferring the comfort of familiar surroundings and security from the sun and elements. _They will be better once stable shelter can be loca..._ _Hadrian!_ That last was a mere bleed-over of sending, inadvertently sent to two minds. One of the very fledglings just under discussion had broken file, wandering away from his momentarily inattentive sire as Simeon and the Ancient passed by. Hadrian, closer to the disturbance, turned – and then himself lunged from his place.

The fledgling, having located a living heartbeat, was stalking it.

Castillan's warning was echoed only a moment later by Raziel's own. "Simeon! 'Ware!" The fledgling, with all the instinctual cunning of its kind, had slunk soundlessly through the ranks of the distracted Razielim, until he was within pouncing range. Even Raziel's shout did not seem to distract those bright golden eyes, currently fixed upon the Ancient, and even as the others began to move, the fledgling leaped.

In the same moment, Hadrian had reached out, trying to grab the fledgling, even as Simeon turned and shoved the Ancient aside, covering the surprised guard with his own body.

The fledgling, fairly indiscriminate, clamped short fangs down on Simeon’s upper arm – albeit briefly. Hadrian wasted no time peeling the young vampire off Hadrian's own sire. The fledgling squalled in frustration and distress -- far in excess of his probable discomfort -- as he was tucked under an arm and hauled bodily back to his unit, and to Ferris, his thoroughly abashed sire.

Simeon made an effort to brush dust off the astonished Ancient. “Are you well?” he asked, solicitously. He seemed scarcely to notice the pair of fang-scrapes just below his pauldron.

Raziel shook his head, both exasperated and amused. As harmless as the fledgling's attack was, he hoped it was not an omen of things to come between the Ancients and the Razielim. "Make sure the other fledglings are watched," he instructed the others, trusting that his commands would be spread to the other elders as they arrived. He turned to the Ancient. "He is new-made, and has little control," he said in explanation. "He thought you were prey; and fledglings are always hungry, unfortunately."

Raziel tilted his head at Tarrant, trusting the alien vampire to follow, and headed for the chamber's exit. "Gershom will handle the rest of the arrivals. Come."

Stepping out of the chamber drove home the difference between the age they had left and the one they had entered. There was no citadel here, only the Time shrine, newly built into a verdant hillside. The air was almost heady in its purity; redolent with the scent of trees and rich earth, stars gleaming overhead, undimmed by the haze of battle or Turelim furnaces. Raziel lifted his face to the wind, closing his eyes briefly and savoring the feel of an uncorrupted Nosgoth. He was not so naive as to believe that this era would be one of perfect peace, or that his Razielim would be unchallenged in their new world. But now ... now there was possibility, and a future, where once there had been none.

“I… yes. …Newly made?” The Ancient echoed, muffled by Simeon's arm. He fluffed his wings and sidled uneasily away from the elder vampire’s attempts at ministrations. But the press of the gathering crowd interrupted – horses were just starting to be led through the portal – and the clan lord had walked away before the guard could complete the query. Blinking in bemusement, the Ancient trailed after.

Soon, discrete units of Razielim were arraying themselves comfortably across the new spring meadow, avoiding the patches of snow that lingered. The Ancient had little to do but be gawked at, and frankly to do some staring of his own – Razielim simply kept pouring forth from the Chronoplast. At least he could make certain the human workmen were well out of the newcomers’ way. That task completed, the Ancient spearman returned to Raziel’s side. “Pardon the interruption, Savior,” said the blue-skinned vampire, leaning on his weapon. “How is it that your clansman was born adult in stature?” Particularly compared to the Ancients, who tended towards slender build.

Something in Raziel's posture had relaxed, tension easing as he watched his Clan fill the plain. "Vampires of my era are not born as you know it," he replied, turning his attention to the Ancient. "We do not live and die as humans and other creatures do. A vampire can only be created by another vampire from a human recently dead, or upon the cusp of death. All you see here were made by me or by my offspring, blood of my blood. That fledgling who attacked you had been newly made just a few months previous; such creatures have not learned control over their instincts just yet." He watched the guard, wondering what the likely reaction would be: acceptance or condemnation?

The expression that crossed the guard’s face was automatic and instinctive, though very swiftly subsumed: revulsion. About what part – the contact with humankind, the vampires’ apostate state, or even the fact that *these* accursed could multiply quite well and relatively rapidly – Raziel could not be certain. The Ancient was silent for a few moments, perhaps composing himself, perhaps simply thinking. “There were certain of us, as well, for whom the bloodhunger was uncontrollable,” he said at last, slowly. There was something of old pain there, of memory. “You say that the control… could have been learned?” The way he phrased the question, carefully in the past tense, was… strange.

"As to that--I cannot say," Raziel said carefully. "In a sense, my people are the inheritors of your people's curse ... but it has changed in coming to us. There are a few fledglings--willful and disobedient, that refuse to learn to control their desires--but I believe that is more from choice and temperament than incapacity." He chose deliberately not to speak on the fate of such fledglings, who generally were not allowed to live long. That, also, was part of a sire's burden.

"Your people have suffered the full brunt of a magic I cannot even comprehend," he said, not sure if his words would help or harm. "With us, a fledgling has their sire, to guide and guard--and discipline--as necessary. The curse inflicted upon you ... did not grant you that."

On the north horizon, backlit by moonlight and the silvery glow of the thin cloud cover, several black-winged forms flew fast and low towards the expansive meadow. The guard beside Raziel seemed too lost in thought to notice. He watched the fledglings, instead. They were not difficult to pick out, even given the throng rapidly spilling from the Chronoplast's ornately carved -- at least, the parts of it that were not shrouded in scaffolding -- entrance. While nearly all Razielim bore the accountrements of warfare -- packs and blades and much-dented armor -- the fledglings wore simple cloth leggings and tunics. They were kept close beside... well, beside each's respective 'Sire', the Ancient assumed. But the fledglings' manner was far more distinctive than their dress. They stood as if fascinated unutterably by their surroundings, enthralled by the detail of even a few blades of grass or an insect or footprint, sometimes crouching to better view the novel object. One, clearly curious, put his hand in sodden snow, and promptly yowled until hauled back upright by his sire's grip. Another, separated a few steps from his creator, jostled fretfully back to his side until he could touch his sire once more, just a light brush of fingertips on armor. The first fledgling, perhaps a little older than the others, watched the Ancient with bright golden eyes. And licked his fangs.

"I... do not know if that would make a difference. Perhaps it must, but... you say they have been like this for months?" the guard asked, his feathers ruffled with unease.

"To a greater or lesser degree, that is so," Raziel said easily, his eyes upon the fast-approaching forms. Fledglings were fledglings--intemperate, hungry, and single-minded in their focus. "After the first year, it is expected that they will gain more command of both their senses and their desires. Still, it is ofttimes as long as a decade before they are released by their sire, to stand or fall as full Razielim." This, to Raziel, did not seem extraordinary--what was a decade to an immortal? His own fledgling years had been compressed out of necessity, as had those of his brothers. As the Empire had risen, however, the teaching of fledgling vampires had been refined and codified, allowing the Clans' progeny far better able to withstand the predations of the Sarafan than the bestial caitiff they might have been otherwise. Raziel's gaze followed that of the Ancient, resting upon those youngest among the growing numbers of Razielim. At the moment, they were raw potential, nothing more; time would have the proving of them. In a way, that was to be true of all his Clan ... despite all that had passed, he still had not forgotten the corruption that had felled his brothers and their progeny.

By now, more than half of the Razielim had entered into this new age, spilling out into the plain in ordered ranks. Even with minimal baggage, they still numbered in the thousands, a spreading sea of pale-skinned, sharp-eyed vampires in battered armor, gazing about in wary fascination at the rich world around them.

"A year," the Ancient guardsman said, leaning heavily on his spear. For all his light, strong build and physical vitality, he seemed somehow worn. He shook his head slightly, a small and unconscious gesture. If his dismay was with the fledglings -- worry, perhaps, that they'd be let to run amuck for that length of time -- it was clearly unfounded; the older vampires were keeping effortlessly tight reign on their progeny, dragging back those who wandered far, cuffing hard those who erred more than once. In this, the sires were aided by their own, older, spawn -- many eyes monitored each young vampire. A mistake like Ferris' in the Chronoplast chamber was rare, though with the distractions this new world offered, it was understandable.

If the casual brutality of the correction was at all shocking, it was well indeed that the Ancients had never witnessed Raziel's own fledgling. These young vampires would, if history was any guide, thoughtlessly touch water or wander into rain several times over the next few months, before the understanding sunk home. Kain had permitted Raziel to make that mistake but once. After the resultant long, long night of... discipline, and an emptied waterskin, the lessoning was well and truly ingrained. But all the brothers' fledglings were more... delicate at first than they themselves had been, and those of the subsequent generations yet moreso. They could not, at this age, survive the kinds of correction Raziel himself had borne -- on the other hand, because dicipline could not be as stringent, it was possible that at least one of these six would be lost to a foolish mistake, perhaps a dash through a spring thundershower or an attempt to traverse a bog.

After a short time, Raziel was obliged to retreat momentarily, to enspell the time-limited portal open once more. When he returned, the advance guard of the Ancients, with a flurry of backwinging, began to land at some distance -- the closest large space still open as Razielim continued to pour out of the Chronoplast. The nearby units of Razielim stirred uneasily, some of them forming up into defensive postures, shields at the ready. Other vampires stared up in open awe. Only two of the fledglings, in contrast, were distracted from their rapt examination of the dewdrops and spider webs hidden in the new grass. Ziliah, the Nature guardian, flew amongst the new arrivals.

Raziel gave the Ancient guard a long, considering look, wondering what thoughts lay concealed behind those eyes. But he had concerns enough to attend to, and so he let the matter lie. The curse that had been laid upon the Ancient race had ripped them apart in more ways than one, and even Raziel was not arrogant enough to believe that he could heal such a far-reaching wound.

Instead, he moved toward the new arrivals, the ranks of the Razielim parting to make way. His guard fell in silently behind, wary eyes upon the winged, spear-wielding Ancients in their alien garb. The space between the two groups was not wide, but held an uncertain tension as predator gauged predator, unsure whether battle or truce were in the offing. The presence of so many stranger vampires; under any other circumstances, would be considered an overt threat, if not an outright invasion. Raziel's brief stay with the Ancients had taught him a great deal; but there was also much that remained unknown to him, including whether they shared the territorial imperatives of their vampiric descendants. So he was careful to keep hands away from weapons, holding himself with the careful, neutral diplomacy oft required in negotiations between the Clans.

"Ziliah." The greeting was warm as Raziel bowed, one elder to another. The formality was more for the benefit of his watching Razielim; the Ancients might not require such abasement from their 'Divine Benefactor', but he knew full well that his Clan would take their cues from their lord. "As promised, I have returned ... and my Clan with me." He felt their regard like a massed weight at his back, and knew the Ancients felt it as well; his fledglings and their offspring, down to the fifth and sixth generation, proud and waiting, warriors all.

The difference between the Ancients and the new arrivals was striking. For all their naturally bold coloration, the Ancients were dressed in soft fabrics of pale hue -- whites, greens, blues. Only two of them were armored; Ziliah bore no weapon at all. Not, of course, that she likely needed a blade -- Kain had once battled the maddened human Nature Guardian, and the tale of that conflict was a desperate one. As before, the mark of her station, the heavy branch-horned and gilded helm, was nowhere to be seen, and there was little to distinguish her from her company. The Ancients maintained no rigid order, simply stood in a loose cluster, gazing in frank curiosity at the activity around them. All of them were slim, lightly built. The Razielim were far from the bulkiest of the clans -- only the Rahabim were on average shorter and more slender -- but in comparison to the blue-skinned vampires they seemed forbiddingly powerful. The stark white of their skins glowed under the moonlight, a halo against red cloaks and the metal tones of armor and fierce gold eyes.

Ziliah matched Raziel's bow -- the impression was that she, no less than the Razielim, was taking her cues from Raziel. "Chosen One," she said, exultation clearly underlying the words. "We have awaited your coming with greatest anticipation." She offered both hands, palm up. Raziel had seen other Ancients clasp hands in greeting, often in midair, though the gesture was a familiar one, of dear friends. One of Ziliah's entourage eyed her severely; she seemed not to notice. "You and yours are welcome. We were nearby on research, and thus have few supplies, but will share what we can. Others shall arrive at all speed -- but tell me, to whence your first destination? The nearest of our townships is New Avalon, some two days hence. Or shall we proceed directly north?" Janos had, upon Raziel's prior visit, been insistent -- the Ancients would prepare quarters for the newcomers in the largest of the Ancients' cities. They would, however, select other more remote territories, in case any Razielim found the facilities unsuitable.

After a moment's pause, Raziel stepped forward and clasped those hands, curling talons around Ziliah's softer, smaller blue ones carefully. "I am happy that you are here to welcome us," he replied honestly, mindful of the eyes upon them both. "If New Avalon can accommodate so many, we would welcome the chance to rest and resupply. We will need to travel on foot, however--how many days' travel would it be without the aid of wings?" The Razielim could move swiftly, far more swiftly than any human migration, but they still remained wingless, and therefore at the mercy of the terrain--and the weather. The snow on the ground, patchy as it was, would hinder their movement.

Without turning, he reached out, touching the familiar thread of his firstborn's mind. _Anani. How many have we left to arrive?_

Anani's reply did not come immediately; Raziel could 'hear' the susurrus of Whispers as he checked with his brethren, and they with their progeny, generals to officers and back again, each man accounting for those under their command. _Only twoscore or so, my lord--the rearguard is all that remains._ came Anani's reply. _They should be through shortly._

 _Good. We shall begin moving once they have rejoined us._ Raziel turned his attentions back to Ziliah, knowing she had likely heard the Whispered conversation. "We will soon be ready to leave," he affirmed.

Behind the Nature Guardian, her entourage was acting upon her words, opening the simple packs they carried and withdrawing leather wineskins. With the grace and gravity of ceremony, the individual Ancients moved towards the closest of the Razielim units. With shallow, formal bows, they offered their tokens. Petrus, who stood with his men nearby, glanced briefly at Raziel, and then with a small shrug, took the proffered liquid and unscrewed the top.

Ziliah blinked, but nodded. The other creatures with whom Raziel had traveled were capable of flight; she'd assumed.... "There are many roads remaining of good quality," she said, "though some remain damaged from the war. By foot..." she shrugged slightly, not knowing for certain the swiftness of the Razielim. Ancients rarely walked, and when they did, their passage was slow. She knew that humans travelled the Hylden-crafted roads, sometimes in number, but like most of the Ancients she had paid them little heed. "Five days, perhaps. From there, two weeks to the capital." She watched Raziel for a moment, gaze catching upon his battlescarred and now mismatched armor. She squeezed Raziel's talons briefly, then released his hands. "Your journey has surely been long, and I little belike the necessity of prolonging it. But we shall travel with you, and set your feet upon the swiftest of the...."

Petrus peered warily into the flask he held, unwilling either to swallow or spit out the small mouthful he'd taken. _Sire... is this... meant to be drunk?_ Though he, like all the Razielim, had been warned that the Ancients were adept at mind mageries, the habits of centuries died hard. And Petrus' ability to shield his sendings was better than most -- he'd not often had to fear interception of his sendings by Zephonim spies.

Compared to the placeholders of Haven, the enchanted fountains of the Ancients produced entirely suitable vitae. But the Razielim had not come from Haven, but rather from the Empire, wherein lines of slaves had been bred for superior taste for centuries. Even the lowliest of communal bloodslaves from those lineages was by comparison a feast -- and the humans usually enjoyed by Razielim elders were far better. There were reserves where select breeds ran free and happily wild until harvest, others where the humans' food was restricted to clover and honey for months before each bleeding; blended, preserved, and aged, the resultant bloodwine was indescribeably clear, bright, and nourishing. Vinyards on the southern Melchiahim border spent generations perfecting their herds' diet, activity level, emotional state, developing flavors and complexities that teased at and enflamed the senses. The fruits were grown to match; great, ancient grape vines, their roots entangled with the bones of captives buried alive. This was... Petrus tilted the wine skin. Were there... chunks in the bottom?

Having tasted the Ancients' vintages in his earlier visit, Raziel kept his expression carefully neutral, though his wry amusement bled through the link as he replied. _It is ... we shall have to adapt to many things in this era, and that is merely one of them. Be reassured in this, at least: while there is much we can learn from the Ancients, there are at least a few things they likewise could learn from us ..._ The skill of the Razielim vintners had never reached the rarefied heights of those of the Melchiahim or Zephonim; but compared to what the Ancients' efforts had produced thus far, their bloodwines would be the finest ambrosia indeed. When a wine skin was proffered to him as well, he suited action to his words, taking it with a nod of thanks and drinking deep. Compared to the blood of demons or placeholders, this vitae was palatable--though he feared nothing would make it more than that. He had to admire the Ancients' fortitude--if not their taste--if they subsisted solely upon such fare.

Returning the skin, he turned to Ziliah. "If one of your companions can be persuaded to remain with us as a guide, despite our groundbound state, we should make good time." He smiled slightly, his expression softening. "And perhaps you can tell me what has passed in the intervening years ... has anything changed since our departure?"

"One?" Ziliah smiled. "Most of us should be honored to accompany you, I imagine, unless you would prefer to travel without large accompaniement. And others will arrive by dawn to greet your coming, though..." she rubbed her talons together, thoughtfully, her gaze falling behind Raziel, to the cavalry units. Those vampires were not riding; their mounts were far too overburdened. Aside from the small packs each man carried, the sum total of the army's remaining equipment was packed upon those animals, wagons being generally too broad to fit through the portal, as well as too slow on the march. Warhorses, unaccustomed to bearing bulky packs, snapped and kicked at their handlers with ill temper. In this, too, Kain's disappearance had been ill-timed: while Raziel bore a large quantity of gear in sub-dimensional pockets, Kain had carried much more. The waging of war would have been far less dire with the healing potions, spare armor, and long bolts Kain had been transporting.

"I shall send word ahead to New Avalon, so that more supplies and beasts of burden may be summoned. As for the past three years or more, we -- I and the other guardians -- are generally well-pleased. Construction of the Chronoplast required great time and attention on the parts of many, and those choosing the Reaver have been few. Perhaps twenty -- a small number compared with the nearly hundred thousand who remain. Ah -- the citadel at Whitecliff, on the new continent, was abandoned shortly after you departed. Too few inhabited the city to make the facilities there worth maintaining, and the local human populations had become aggressive." Ziliah seemed to find no particular menace in that -- in her opinion, if wild spike-backed hogs kept attacking the crops for example, it simply meant that their ranges had been encroached upon too severely, and that other lands should be chosen for habitation. Ziliah shrugged, trying to think of what else might interest The Divine Benefactor. "I've been monitoring a precipitous falloff in sand dragon numbers in the southern hemisphere, and bass and armorfish populations in Mirror Lake; we're still not certain of the causes."

Raziel had little enough interest in the well-being of sand dragons and armorfish, truth be told; though he could not help but wonder, in the back of his thoughts, if these things were a precursor to the corruption to come. Such a thing seemed unlikely, not in an age with the Pillars new-made and pristine. Still, it would be something to consider and watch as the years passed.

"Supplies are welcome, of course, but beasts--" Raziel hesitated. Ziliah *was* the Nature Guardian, after all. "Any beasts brought would have to remain some distance away, or they will become maddened with fear. Most natural creatures flee at our approach." Whether that was a judgment on vampires as undead and fundamentally unnatural, or simply a reaction to a preeminent predator, who could say?

Ziliah's revelation that the Reaver blade was the chosen method of suicide among the Ancients was--disturbing-- in a way. Logically he knew it had nothing to do with him; no portion of his soul was housed within the blade in this age. Still ... the waste of it, all because of the Ancients' blind faith in their lurking and gluttonous 'god', was hard to accept.

 _The rearguard is here, my lord--none have remained behind._ Anani's mindvoice was calm, with an undercurrent of satisfaction.

Ziliah arched a brow, but nodded. "We shall do what we can, then," she said, her gold gaze sweeping the assembled Razielim. "The road is not far distant," she said, gesturing, when it seemed the army was prepared to move, columns and units forming up in ordered masses.

Despite the wet grass and the occasional patch of snow, it soon became apparent that by foot the Razielim would move a great deal more swiftly than the Ancients. Even at what a human force would call a doubletime march -- slow, compared to the lope at which vampires usually moved -- the Razielim outpaced their guides. After some attempts to match pace, the Ancients at last gave up, flying ahead in short bursts to await the Razielim vanguard, or looping and wheeling overhead the broad serpentine column of steel and hard white flesh. Ziliah alone stayed beside Raziel and his guardsmen, discussing logistical matters -- what supplies the Razielim most needed, what last few arrangements should be made for their habitation -- though her breath soon came somewhat shortly.

The road was indeed close, scarcely an hour distant. Thick grass parted to reveal a wide ribbon formed of precisely fitted and matched flagstones. The road was expertly graded, the roadbed fifteen meters or more deep in places, with a wide margin. Twelve men might walk comfortably abreast. But it was the marker stones that caught Raziel's attention -- these were lit by the virulent green glow of very familiar runes. The magics seemed minor, but clearly stabilized and preserved the roadway, for though it had been some twenty years since the end of the war, the highway was as if newly built.

In the vanguard, Goran stiffened and stopped short, his sword hissing from its sheath at the sight of the runes. Many of the others did the same, both elder and younger reacting to the sight with growls and bared fangs. Any amazement at the broad, perfectly engineered road was pushed aside by presence of the glyphs; their battles against the Hylden had taught them well what havoc such magics could wreak against their kind, given only a moment's chance. Raziel's personal guard immediately began to move, weapons at the ready, positioning themselves defensively, only to be forestalled by their lord's uplifted hand.

"Hold," he ordered, and turned to Ziliah. "Many of us have borne the scars wrought by glyph magic," he explained, his face neutral. "Do we need to beware these as remnants of the Hylden, or are they magics the Ancients have turned to their own purposes?” Most likely, the glyphs were entirely benign; why would the Ancients lead them to a road warded against vampires? But assumptions were dangerous things, especially now.

Ziliah paused, startled. As Raziel had already seen in the winged vampires' steam baths and architecture, the Ancients had no particular compunction about using the devices of their defeated foes. Indeed, they seemed to depend upon them, to a certain degree. "The glyphs themselves have always been harmless," she said, giving the blade-wielding Razielim a wide berth as she stepped forward and laid her talons over the top of the waist-high pillar. Her mouth twisted in mild distaste. "Even if they place more strain upon the fibre of their surroundings than seems befitting." Thurstan, standing at ready attention beside Raziel, stiffled a full-body shudder. Any magic of Hylden make, regardless of whether its intent was as a weapon, burned fiercely the flesh of any vampire fool enough to touch a thing around which such foul miasma clung.

"My Lord," Aquila, one amongst Raziel's honor guard, clenched his right hand over his heart and gave an abbreviated bow. "By your leave, I shall test these wardings."

At Raziel's brief nod, he sheathed his blade and approached the glyph-inscribed pillar with resolute caution, stepping warily, as if he approached a venomous snake. Mindful of the watching eyes of his brethren, he did not flinch or pause, but reached out to touch lightly upon the stone next to Ziliah's own three-fingered hand. The glyph ... flickered, perhaps--possibly a trick of the light--but its glow did not intensify, and no foulsome magics lashed outward to sear flesh in retaliation.

A ripple of relief moved through the watching ranks of Razielim. Weapons were lowered, and the waiting tension eased as it became clear that there was no trap waiting to be sprung. In its stead came wonder ... none were undisciplined enough to break ranks, but those artisans and engineers fortunate enough to be in units be nearest to the road were focussed less upon their commanders and more upon the road itself, perfect and pristine. Roads were common enough in the Empire, built for both their strategic advantages as well as their use in trade ... but most were rutted, narrow things. Only those routes near the Sanctuary and the citadels of the Clans could boast any roads to rival this one, and even they seemed ill-made next to the wide causeway in front of them. Murmurs travelled between those close enough to inspect it, marvelling at the unnatural precision in which the stones were laid, with scarcely a wheel-rut or divot to be seen upon its surface.

Raziel gave no word of acknowledgment as Aquila returned to his place, moving forward as the Razielim began to stalk in ranks forward onto the road's surface. Aquila had merely done his duty; no less would have been expected of any other Razielim, much less those that had risen to the notice of Raziel himself. Instead Raziel approached the glyph, glancing at Ziliah before touching the stone pillar himself, feeling the energies move beneath his talons. It was ... familiar, yet different--more ordered, and not nearly so malevolent as had been his experience with the Hylden's workings. Had their long imprisonment twisted their magic as well as their bodies? Or was this simply a more primitive and lesser bit of magic than those the Hylden had learned to wield against vampires? "You will have to forgive our caution," he remarked wryly to Ziliah. "Our journey here has been long; we have become too accustomed to battle and treachery, I fear."

Ziliah nodded. "I understand well, never fear," she said, though it was clear that the strong reactions to the small glyph left her somewhat bewildered. "The Hylden are devious foes. But belacking the power of God, surely even they cannot coordinate an assault through the intervening ages." She turned away, dismissing the concern, not precisely impolitely, but with the same oblivious assurance exhibited by most Ancients.

Thurstan flexed his shoulders. Beneath his armor, like a splash of acid across his chest and back, spilled the scars of glyph magic. He'd swallowed pride sufficiently to submit to Tarrant's fleshcraftings -- he'd not have lived past the injury otherwise. Of all the Razielim, he was perhaps least likely to underestimate the Hylden -- and correspondingly most appalled by the Ancient's apparent unconcern. But he said nothing.

For all his normally-expressive lankiness, Ludovic, also amongst Raziel's guard, scarcely arched an eyebrow. Though subtle, the gesture was telling. Raziel's fifty-seventh took interest in esoteric magics and psychologies -- the manners in which beliefs cascaded into causes, shaping the courses of history. He was old enough to have witnessed first-hand much of that history, and his understandings had helped to secure a dozen battles against the Hylden. "God?" he prompted, gaze flicking briefly towards Raziel. Roughly translated, that word had typically applied to Kain.

Goran led the vanguard forward, making room for more Razielim, pouring in a dark wave from the hillside, spilling over the road's fine surface. Silent by training, they made less sound than the breeze as they whispered through the flexing new grass. Scouts peeled off in trios, ranging like wolves alongside the road, alert for any sign of ambush -- or evidence of suitable prey. At some distance, a doe and a fawn, bedded down near the roadside, darted away in white-eyed alarm as they caught the iron-dust scent of vampire. The fledglings dotted amongst the central portion of the army kept up quite well, or were made to keep up, their Sires' hand wrapped tight around forearm or shoulder. In truth, even the youngest neonates were well-equipped to run alongside their Sires, the deeply instinctual need for moving both far and quiet supplanting their normally mercurial attentions. The young could even fight alongside their Sires, though they typically cast aside blades to leap into combat with bare fists, as Raziel had proved once, long ago. Of course, in doing so, they ofttimes took great injury -- Raziel had first proved that, too.

 _More airborne arrivals, my Lord. North by northwest,_ Anani reported, a light and imperturbable mental contact, as someone caught sight of more dark wings against the moonlight.

 _I see them,_ Raziel affirmed, turning his eyes in the direction indicated. These new Ancients were still some distance off--mere flickers of movement high above the horizon, invisible to any but vampire eyes. Their approach was swift, the Ancients' great dark wings making good time; it would be only a handful of moments before they arrived. "I am sure the Ancients will tell you much of their God," he said in answer to Ludovic's question and Thurstan's unease. "It was at his command that they went to war against the Hylden." There was an oblique and subtle note of warning in those words, audible only to those who knew Raziel well. In the coming days, he would need to find time and privacy to warn his Razielim more thoroughly against the Ancients' monstrous 'god'--and do so without somehow also mortally offending their hosts. "Your compatriots from New Avalon, I presume?" Raziel asked politely of Ziliah, nodding in the direction of the newcomers.

There was a subtle reshuffling in the ranks of the Razielim as the new contingent of winged vampires neared. While nothing so obvious as a defensive line materialized, the injured and those burdened by baggage or fledglings fell back, allowing the positions facing the new arrivals to be filled silently with armed and readied warriors, their eyes upon the sky.

Ziliah cocked her head, listening to communications that whispered against Raziel's own mind, there and gone, too swiftly for his limited training to seize. "No... one of the Gera twins, Neka. She was supervising a mining operation just to the north, I believe. She sends her most delighted greetings." Ziliah smiled broadly, pleasantly, dainty fang tips bright against her dark lips, in what to Razilim sensibilities would have been a minor threat. "Those residing in New Avalon may be some time in arriving; they needs must prepare for your arrival," she said, in apology. New Avalon had been, as most of the Ancient's cities, built for many, many more than presently resided there. There were chambers to be aired and furnished, stables to clean, long-neglected bloodfountains to be started once more, and so on.

As it became apparent that the Razielim were not to continue that very moment, a few of the circling Ancients landed at polite distance on the roadway. A young sylph of an Ancient, his skin a frosted blue like the perfect bowl of a desert sky, approached one of the units to the rear of the Razielim formation. The men there shifted uneasily as he came close -- closer than necessary simply to speak. In a nearby unit, one sire dragged his protesting neonate fledgling behind him, grip tight enough to bruise. "Might I assist with your burden?" asked the Ancient, in a heavily-accented human tongue, extending a slender hand towards Bentham, one of the warriors.

The Razielim, carrying a heavy pack of enchanted mortars and chemicals for the production of white fire, blinked. It was difficult enough even for Raziel, and those nearly as old as he, to understand the archaic language the Ancients used. Bentham glanced nervously to his shieldmate, Khel, who was perhaps even younger than he, though sired directly by Raziel, unlike himself. "What does it want?" he murmured.

Khel, conscious of both his standing and his relative youth, tried to look dignified instead of blank, but he feared his attempt wasn't very convincing. He tilted his head, and said carefully in the common human tongue, "I ... do ... not ... understand," speaking each word very carefully in the vain hope the dark-winged creature would comprehend. He had heard his Sire speak to the Ancients in an archaic tongue of some kind ... but he couldn't understand more than the occasional word, and none had ever thought to lesson him in dead languages as well as living tongues. And from the looks of it, his attempt at the common tongue was just as incomprehensible. The slender, almost fragile-looking winged blue man in front of them tilted his head quizzically, and a ripple of amusement flickered through those clansmen nearest to them at their predicament.

"Um ..." Khel glanced at Bentham a little helplessly, then tried again as the Ancient said something else and tugged carefully at a strap of Bentham's pack. "We don't ... I am sorry, but you cannot have that ..." In a certain amount of desperation, he tried to Whisper at the winged vampire, not even knowing if he could touch the mind of an Ancient. _I do not understand ... do you require something from us?_

The Ancient blinked. He glanced back to his compatriots and spoke a few words -- musical and sweet, but entirely enigmatic. Khel's tentative mental contact was... ignored. But a similar whisper was extended towards Bentham, who was older than Khel and had been gifted with full talons. The contact was gentle, firm, patient, as the Ancient ascertained that the strength of the link was ample for the exchange of images. Then pictures were presented neatly in Bentham's mind's eye, first one of the far smaller Ancient carrying the pack Bentham bore so lightly, then an image of the blue-skinned vampire walking alongside the column of Razielim.

Three more Ancients approached. One of them murmured something that sounded like a question, reached out and laid soft-skinned blue talons upon the massive black steel shaft of Bentham's heavy halberd, one of not less than three weapons the Razielim carried. The other two Ancients walked past Khel, who was equally as burdened, but at a mere eighty-six years of age had yet to develop true talons -- to peer up at Castillian. The Razielim was taller than either of the blue skinned vampires. "May we assist with your spears?" asked an Ancient hopefully, gesturing to the bundle of long, heavily-enchanted bolts, meant to be hurled by a war machine constructed from whatever thick tree trunks the Razielim sappers might scavenge from the countryside. The bolts were long -- they towered over Castillian's head.

Bentham's talons tightened upon the shaft of his halberd, an instinctive growl stifled at the back of his throat. The strange vampires appeared to only be trying to help, but he was not inclined to give up his weapons to the care of another! He backed off a step, glancing over to his immediate superior. "I think ... they want to help us, sir ..."

The elder Razielim had been watching the Ancients antics with some bemusement, but as they continued to prove insistent, Harim stepped forward, carefully inserting an arm in between the importunate Ancient and his target. While several centuries old, he still was not old enough to know the human tongue the Ancients had used. Instead he scrutinized those azure alien features, that eager expression, free of guile. After a moment of silent consideration, he gestured to a waiting Razielim, who immediately handed over his pack without argument. Are you sure you can carry this? he sent to the waiting Ancient, proffering it. The pack was large and awkward to the extreme, and heavy--could such a slender creature bear up under that weight?

Thurstan turned, his head tilting as uneasy Whispers trickled up from his commanders. He glanced at Raziel, still in conversation with Ziliah, and came to a swift decision. _Do not allow them to take up personal weapons, nor any supplies that might prove dangerous. Otherwise ... if they wish to share our burdens, we will not gainsay them._ As nonthreatening as the Ancients had been, there was a certain amount of risk in letting winged creatures lay hands upon what meager possessions the Razielim had managed to bring through--if they decided to take flight, there would be no way for any of them to pursue, except for Raziel himself.

Still ... their Lord seemed to trust them. It seemed only fitting that Thurstan do the same.

The young-seeming Ancient sensed the question, even if the words made no particular sense. He nodded happily, arms out-held -- the Razielim bore their burdens as if they were all but weightless, after all. The pack was duly deposited. Harim was careful to let go of the weight gradually, but even so, the Ancient chirped a short sound of dismay, quickly bitten off, as the mass of the pack fell upon him. The Ancients were a strong race, but the rucksack was heavier than the frost-blue Ancient -- by perhaps four times over. Eyes wide, he hugged the pack to his body, trying to regain his balance. He smiled wanly at Harim, whites still showing around his eyes, and managed to take a wobbling step. The Ancient who had tried to touch Bentham's halberd abandoned the effort and rushed to assist. Between the two of them, and with a flurry of whispers and gesturing, they manhandled the pack around, until at last each Ancient grasped one shoulder-strap, the haversack scraping the ground between them.

Castillian, for her part, kept the long bolts withheld as Thurstan's command was relayed. She paused a moment, then proffered a lightweight buckler instead, which one Ancient took up with a pleased smile. She was aware, of course, of the need to treat with these blue skinned... beings in a mannerly way. There'd been no shortage of warnings over the nights before the Razielim entered the time portal... though Castillian was still half-convinced that the orders were meant to be a ruse, a means of keeping the Ancients off their guard. Not, she thought, watching the pair struggle with the pack, that they had much 'guard' in the first place. They did, however -- now that several specimens were close enough for Castillian to thoroughly examine -- smell delectable. Sweet, like musk and blackberries and clean skies, radiant with heat that pulsed, like blood, just under the skin....

Above, the trio of new arrivals -- Neka Gera, and two other Ancients -- dove rapidly through wisps of cloud cover. Their broad wings, so suitable for long, soaring distances, should have made them relatively slow; their approach seemed unnaturally rapid. But as they came near, Raziel's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of... something, not the spell-weave itself, but rather a rippling front of displaced air before and beside each of the winged beings. The magic dissipated with a wash of breeze, and all three Ancients backwinged onto the roadway. "Messiah. It is fine indeed to see you so early, Chosen One," Neka said, dropping into the same deep bow as had the guardsmen earlier: one knee and fist on the ground, head bowed, wings half-spread in a graceful sweep so that the longest flight feathers just brushed the dust. Those feathers trembled, just a little -- she'd clearly flown fast and hard for the past hour.

Raziel acknowledged the greeting with a careful bow of his head and a certain wry sense of resignation. As much of a misnomer the title 'messiah' was, it seemed he was destined to carry it regardless, along with the unspoken hopes and single-minded fascination of their Ancient progenitors. He could only hope that the arrival of his Clan might ... diffuse that fascination somewhat. "Rise, if you will. You are ... Neka?" He glanced at Ziliah for assistance in their introduction. The other two Ancients remained unnnamed, and seemed to be retainers of some kind, hovering in the background with a kind of eager deference, their eyes flickering between Raziel and his assembled Clan in apprehensive wonder.

Knowing from experience that they would remain upon this spot all night exchanging pleasantries with arriving Ancients if they did not continue their travels, Raziel caught Anani's gaze. _New Avalon awaits us, and dawn approaches apace. Do not tarry; move the Clan as swiftly as is practicable._ Daybreak would do little except inconvenience the elder Razielim--but unfiltered sunlight would scald fledglings and weaken lesser Razielim. He turned back to the waiting Ancients, gesturing at the waiting roadway. "We must continue on ... if the Nature Guardian sees fit to allow it, you are welcome to join us." He did not wait for further discussion, but suited action to words, moving forward as the ranks of Razielim did the same under Anani's silent command.

"I..." Neka glanced up, and her eyes flicked to the vampires massed behind Raziel. Such had been her haste that she'd not fully registered the scale of the new army. An uncomfortable pause, and then she had to drag her gaze back to Raziel. "Yes, Divine Benefactor. I would be honored," she said, standing.

She glanced towards Ziliah, who nodded faintly -- access to Raziel himself had once been tightly restricted during his previous stay in the capital, both because of the sheer number of Ancients who wished to greet him, and against the prospect of humans coming into contact with the Chosen One. "The Divine Benefactor's clan has only just arrived from warfare with the Hylden," said Ziliah, stepping forward to touch talontips with Neka. "If you will, do what you can to assist their journey to New Haven." Neka nodded eagerly, and gestured back to her companions. The three of them bowed once more to Raziel, then tread lightly back down the column of Razielim.

At the rear of the formation, Harim huffed a sigh. He divested from one of his clansmen a thick, but lightweight, coil of the cord used to mend leather armor. "It seems we require that pack after all," he said diplomatically, though aware he'd not likely be understood. He reached between the two Ancients, hooking his talons under the pack's metal frame -- the only point that could be freely handled by taloned elders, as even the thickest leather straps would wear out quickly under their hands -- and lifted it easily from the disappointed Ancients. He proffered the cord instead, and the Ancients took it up, speaking words that sounded pleased.

Fully formed up, the head of the Razielim column began to flow down the road in discrete units. Each phalanx contained some hundred men, with plenty of room to maneuver between each block, in case of an attack. As swift as the Razielim had been on the plains, they were yet faster here -- the road was nearly as perfect as the tar-black sheets Raziel had seen in Haven -- some magic seemed even to keep the highway clear of falling leaves and moisture. The grade was no greater than one or two percent, even through the verdant foothills. There was an astonishing variety and number of wildlife present, from birds and bats, to insects, to a number of very large creatures, heard crashing through the trees at a distance. None, however, were mindless enough to disturb the Razielim. There was even some evidence of human activity -- a broken wheel dragged to the side, dirt footpaths that radiated away from the Hylden road towards distant villages.

Those Ancients already with the column took whatever lightweight objects they could and flew ahead, unable to maintain the pace by foot. Even Ziliah abandoned her place beside Raziel from time to time, to take to wing. Several times every hour, more Ancients arrived and sought to greet Raziel, even if only very briefly. Thereafter, some departed to spread the news, but most remained with the Razielim, proffering skins of odd-tasting blood, attempting to assist where they could. "May I ease your journey?" offered one of the larger male Ancients, as he touched down beside one limping warrior. The Razielim, Cyrus, had been severely wounded -- had lost much of one hip and thigh a month ago. Even now, his pace was slower, and painful. Cyrus glanced in interest at the Ancient, not precisely understanding the request, then started as the Ancient sent an image -- the blue-skinned vampire in flight, arms wrapped firmly around Cyrus' waist.

"Me?" he asked reflexively, scrutinizing the Ancient suspiciously for any sign of pity or scorn. But he found none--only an honest curiosity and willingness to help. "I do not believe that I can ..." This Ancient appeared somewhat stronger than his brethren, but still--to lift a muscled, armored warrior must surely take more strength than the creature possessed! And even were that not the case, he could not abandon his position in the phalanx, even ...

... even if he desperately wanted to. To be able to touch the sky like a bird ... like Lord Raziel himself ...

Cyrus found himself searching out the familiar face of his Sire and commander. _...what should I ...?_

From mind to mind the question flew, until finally it reached Raziel himself. The dark, potent touch of Kain's firstborn settled upon Cyrus's thoughts, darkly amused. _So you wish to fly, then ..._

Cyrus stopped short, caught fast between trepidation and hope. _...only if that be your will, my lord._

A long, singular moment ... and then an answer. _Go. It is my hope that all the Razielim will know the sky, in time ... you shall simply be the first._ There was an odd resonance to the words, as if they were laden with buried memories that Cyrus could not touch.

His heart was silent within his chest, as it had been since his rebirth as a Razielim--but it did not take the pound of a heartbeat to betray his mounting anticipation. With a certain amount of unseemly haste, Cyrus handed over his glaive into the care of his shieldmate. Then he paused, suddenly uncertain as he faced the waiting Ancient. Exactly how was this supposed to work?

The Ancient followed patiently, for even as messages and commands were passed, the Razielim unit never stopped moving. Once Cyrus seemed ready, expectant, the blue-skinned vampire offered up another image, one of Cyrus standing separately from his phalanx. Cautiously, perhaps suspiciously, Cyrus stopped, falling back from his platoon, until there was room enough for the downsweep of broad wings. And with no further ado, the Ancient stepped close, one arm wrapping tight around Cyrus' hips, the other just under his shoulder blades. And then he _leaped_.

The two-step jolt was sudden, disconcerting, one wrench of inertia as the Ancient sprang skyward, another as his wings cracked down hard, feathers slapping at the air, propelling both bodies fifteen meters vertically in a bare second. Then came a sickening sense of falling as those wings swept upward once more. But the Razielim were not particularly heavy -- certainly not in comparison to the equipment many of them carried -- and the Ancients were far more capable in the air than on the ground. Again the Ancient's pinions beat down, and again, the ascent slightly less laborious as they began to gain forward momentum.

Above, a pair of Ancients casually barrel-rolled out of the way with a lazy fold of wing, their rapt conversation unperturbed.

A lifetime of discipline kept Cyrus' reflexive gasp from escaping his throat as they launched into the air. His arms were clasped hard around the Ancient's frame as the ground dropped swiftly away, however, talons digging into the surprisingly resistant silk and leather garments before he forced himself to loosen his grip for fear he would wound the one responsible for keeping them both aloft. The power in those dark-pinioned wings was amazing; the Ancient seemed to have little trouble lifting them both into the sky, especially once they had reached the higher, stronger currents of air.

The wind was cold, and clear--and as his apprehension passed, Cyrus found himself craning his neck to stare in fascination at the sight of the world spread out below. They were now higher than he had ever imagined possible--far above even the tallest tree or castle tower, almost as high as if he stood upon a mountain precipice. He saw his Clan moving below, a dark shadowed mass loping swiftly upon that shining, improbable road, and he instinctively reached out to share those images to his sire, his brethren. _Look ... look at the world, my brothers ..._ Verdant, lush as even the dawn of the Empire had never been, spreading out before his eyes like the promised land .... How could the Ancients bear to give up such bounty?

Raziel's eyes were also turned upward, the faint touch of a smile curving his lips as he watched them fly, listening to the echo of Cyrus' Whisper spread from mind to mind. Firmly squashing the urge to join them in the air, he remarked to Ziliah, "Your people are generous beyond measure--I do not think Cyrus had ever expected such a gift. At least not so soon." And given that Cyrus, like the others, had recently been facing extinction ... most likely none would have been given the chance to follow their Lord into the sky.

Ziliah smiled, glancing up, aware of the images and emotions being broadcast, even if not the particular words. "So they will... fledge in time, then?" she asked, as if Ludovic, Thurstan, Aquila, and the rest of Raziel's honor guard were not walking just beside. There was more than the Ancients' usual polite interest in the question, an intentness. Most of Raziel's kindred possessed talons, at least, but there had been Ancients who had held the opinion that at least some of the Divine One's kindred would also be winged.

Far above, the body in Cyrus' careful taloned grasp was warm -- hot, even through the leather and silk, fired by the muscular effort of flight. Cyrus could feel the Ancient's heartbeat against his own chest; sweet-scented blood, like sage and citrus, throbbed beneath the sky-blue skin of the throat mere inches away. At a height, the Razielim army became a sinuous silver cord where the road curved, the lights of huddled villages visible only as dull, banked sparks on the rolling undulation of field and forest. Sensing his passenger's delight, the Ancient smiled benevolently. "Higher?" he asked, wind whipping at the words. Without awaiting a response, he pumped hard, rising into rougher air. At this altitude, dawn was a orange and attenuated smear on the horizon.

Some of the human villages nearby were close indeed; as the breeze shifted, the older Razielim could scent woodsmoke. Zimri, Raziel's eighteenth and acting general of the fifth division -- for she had in part lead the disastrous assault upon Sanctuary, and her position was presently subject to Raziel's judgement -- politely requested a moment of her Sire's attention. "My Lord. May I send a scouting unit for provisioning?"

At Ziliah's question, Raziel's eyes darkened ... and Anani and the others tensed, hands tightening into fists and upon weapon hilts. Eyes flickered to their Lord's back, and the wings folded there. Only Anani and a chosen few had seen what had been left behind after Kain had done his grisly work--but the memories that followed belonged to them all. All the Razielim had borne the price for Raziel's wings ... and unlike Raziel himself, they had no intervening centuries to blunt the memories of all they had lost.

"In time ..." Raziel said slowly, catching Anani's gaze. "I was the first, but ... in time, yes, I believe they will." And if Anani did, as well as the others ... perhaps that would balance the scales, at least in part. Shaking away dark memories, he turned to respond to Zimri. "Very well. We could use the resupply, as well. Instruct them to take no more than a third of the herd as tribute, unless--" he paused, suddenly aware that perhaps he had just proposed raiding their hosts' larder. "Do the villages here belong to your people, Ziliah? If so, I would be glad to barter for the humans we require." They did not have much in the way of trade goods--but Raziel would find a way, if necessary.

From his vantage, high in the air, Cyrus hissed a little in aggravation as he caught sight of the faint orange glow that heralded the sun's imminent rise. Distracted by his injuries and the unique experience of flight, he had not realized dawn was so near. "We must find shelter soon," he said to the Ancient holding him, knowing even as he did so that the winged man would not understand. He tried to reach out to the other vampire's mind, shakily offering images of searing light, cringing fledglings, and cool, dark shade under the relentless burning sun ...

"Hm?" The Ancient asked, cupping his wings to slow them. He turned his head, as if hearing better would somehow enable him to understand. The motion turned his nose against Cyrus' ear, and for a moment, the Ancient paused, wings stuttering in flight. The Divine One's brethren had very little scent, even considering the wind that whipped past, but... deep purple, like the sheen of a new-forge blade quenched and cooling, darkening, solidifying. So deeply sweet.... Cyrus was little more than three hundred; his curse far less refined than that of many other Razielim. But the Ancient who carried him was less than a tenth his age. The winged vampire, all but unaware of the movement, ducked his head, inhaling more deeply.

The brush of images against the Ancient's mind, however, was more than sufficient to distract his erring attentions. His blush rose as a darker shade of blue. The Ancient glanced quickly away, focusing on the mental contact. "I... are you like unto the darkmagic construction? The... Tarrant?" The Ancient asked. He was aware that the rarer atmosphere lightened first, and promptly angled his wings, feathers hissing through the air as he dropped into a swift, shallow descent.

"Bargain?" Ziliah looked shocked. "Janos has proposed formally offering up unto you the whole of the world, from the pinnacles of our towers to the depths of the oceans. He, like many, is of the opinion that as the emissary of God, you have the truest claim upon the entirety of our sphere of existence." Ziliah paused, a little uncomfortable. "Others... differ. To a degree." That rift would deepen, she feared, once all the Guardians viewed the new arrivals. For that matter, Ziliah could not support the Reaver Guardian's view, for she would not stand idly by if Raziel chose a path disruptive of the natural world. There was another facet to her reluctance, too -- the Ancients had told Raziel that a place for his kindred would be provided; now, three years later, they were still locked in argument over what that place should be, precisely.

Raziel looked at Ziliah in astonishment, almost stopping short at her words. Only the press of the Clan around him kept him moving. "Janos ... wishes to cede *all* of Nosgoth to us?" His disbelief did not stem from the magnitude of Janos' proposal--had not the Empire stretched over all of Nosgoth, from one sea to the next? Rather it was the idea that those lands would be given freely, rather than taken by force of arms and the shedding of blood. Even if those same lands were destined to be emptied by the Ancients' eventual extinction, it was nigh unfathomable to the Razielim that their vampire antecedents would not defend their territory--by fang and claw if necessary.

However, surprise did not preclude Raziel's ability to sense the unease behind those words. "You do not agree with Janos, then? What arrangement do you believe would be equitable?" As a Pillar Guardian, Ziliah held a status equal to a Lieutenant, at least in Raziel's estimation. Messiah Raziel might be, but the patronage of one or more of the Guardians could only aid his Clan in the maneuverings that were sure to come. As such, learning what considerations might be required was necessary, if the Razielim were ever to be more than humble petitioners.

In the air, Cyrus did not comprehend the question the Ancient had asked of him, knowing it was a question only through the lilt in tone. Though the winged vampire's ... distraction was becoming more obvious by the moment, that hot, living scent of power changing subtly, edged about with a copper-tang of musk. If it were another of his kind, he would have known what was required. But these strange vampires, soft-skinned and generous, were neither elder nor fledgling. Should he bare his throat, or assert his own will?

Distracting himself from his uncertainty, he spied a copse of trees in the far distance, and pointed. "Let us look there," he said, doing his best to send pictures of them winging their way towards it. "There might be shelter enough there." And was still within reach by dawn, if the Razielim kept their current pace.

The copse of trees to which Cyrus pointed was a thick, dark tangle of ancient first growth forest, untouched by hoe or fire for generations. Though at this height they seemed miniature, many of those trees crested at eighty times a man's height, their trunks like great pillars of the earth. Sheltered in a hollow between hilly extensions of the mountains, the broad bowl was wetter than the surrounding lands, which were covered in scrub and brush. Several sweet-water springs collected their waters in an oval of glassy black at the center, though it could scarcely be glimpsed through the cover of boughs and new leaves. The place had been used as a campsite by Ancients before. Cyrus' own Ancient seemed to understand; he called briefly to one of the other winged vampires, aloft nearby, and then set out for the copse. Behind, other laden Ancients followed, bringing along the objects they had collected from the Razielim -- for most knew Tarrant, or of him. If other Razielim might suffer in the sunlight in a similar manner, the Ancients would assist in setting up a camp. Mindcalls to distant Ancients whispered at the verge of Cyrus' consciousness, requests for new arrivals to bring tents or canvasses, if they could.

Beside Raziel, Ziliah shook her head reluctantly. "I... no. I have duties that preclude my complete agreement: I could not permit you, nor yours, to greatly disrupt the natural order, for example. Nor to interfere significantly with the preparations for your future questing, such as the placement of fonts and edifices." She shrugged -- Janos claimed that the Messiah could simply be trusted not to trespass, and while Ziliah agreed, she was more practically minded. What if Elon, the Time Guardian, discovered that a great fortress must be constructed directly where the Razielim were lodged? What if Raziel, or his kindred, wished to return an Ancient to God before his or her work was completed? There were considerations that Janos simply did not see. "Additionally... some of us keep lands or enterprises or humans." Her nose wrinkled a little, perhaps at that last. "It would, I think, ease integration if those were not disrupted unduly. Neka's mining operations to the north, for example."

Ziliah paused, evidently interrupted by a mental contact. She conferred rapidly with the previously arrived Ancients. "Though," she added, "if you believe production can be increased, we would be pleased to place most mines in your hands. They were taken over from the Hylden, and administering the equipment and the human workers they left behind has proved... difficult." Revolts had already halted the flow of ore coming from two more distant outposts. Since metals were required for the construction of items Elon foresaw necessary, this presented certain difficulties. "In any case, however, the closest such claimed resources are... hn. Perhaps Virgil's cotton plantations, some thirty kilometers to the southeast. The local humans are all unclaimed and quite wild -- and can be dangerous."

A few of the elders in Raziel's guard of honor glanced sidelong at the Nature Guardian. The conversation sounded very nearly as if she was discussing the Ancients' conditions of surrender. Petrus and Zimri exchanged silent looks -- from the content of Cyrus' unexpected scouting, the surrounding villages contained nothing but peasants and country squires.

A sardonic smile curved Raziel's lips. "Humans we can deal with, wild or otherwise." Turning his attention to the still-waiting Zimri, he added, "Take the scouting party then, and go. Dawn is approaching--make sure all the warriors are armored against it, for we cannot wait for you." Zimri's group would need to catch up to the Razielim after they had taken shelter for the day, and burdened by live prey, they would likely be far too slow to evade daybreak themselves.

"As you command," came the reply. Zimri bowed briefly, an eager light in her eyes--it had been far too long since any of them had been able to afford time for a hunt.

She disappeared swiftly through the throng, and Raziel glanced at Ziliah. "Tell me of these mines ... Perhaps your troubles can provide benefit to both our peoples." Their pace never slackened, even as they discussed the recent human revolts, the shortages of precious and arcane metals, what territories had been abandoned to the humans and the wilderness as the Ancients found themselves no longer able to defend them.


	2. Chapter 2

Far ahead of the main body of the Razielim, Cyrus watched the grasses and scrub flash by below, buoyed by the steady beating of the Ancient's wings. The treeline in the distance was growing larger and more distinct by the moment, approaching at impossible speed, and he could not help but envy the speed conveyed by flight--so effortless compared to breaking trail through the gullies and marshes below! The strong body under his hands was warm, the bright living scent of blood a potent temptation as he listened to the rhythmic pounding of that Ancient heart. "What is your name?" he asked suddenly. When the Ancient merely looked at him, his face showing his incomprehension, Cyrus tried again. "Cyrus." He sent the memory of his own face, reflected in the water-mirrors held by some few elders of the Clans. "You?" He tapped the man's shoulder, making his question obvious.

The Ancient blinked, then the corners of his mouth curved upwards with understanding. "You are Cyrus," he repeated, tightening his grasp briefly around the Razielim, pleased with the knowledge. He offered back an image of his own face. "Akasha," said the Ancient, though he did not free a hand to gesture towards himself. Cyrus nodded, appearing to understand, and after a short pause Akasha sent the likeness of one long, slender black feather. "Feather," he said hopefully, in a liquid, lilting tongue. It was the general term for flight feather in the Ancients' language, for while each primary feather had its own word, Akasha rather thought that distinction might confuse the issue.

Cyrus frowned. "Akasha Feather?" he asked, employing the second word as if it were a familly name.

The Ancient shook his head and tried again, this time sending images in measured slow succession, naming each one. "Feather. Leaf. Road. Cloud."

"Ah!" Cyrus said in understanding. "Erm ..." He tried repeating the words back to the Ancient--to *Akasha*--slowly and deliberately, doing his best to fix their meanings in his mind. He was aware that he was not pronouncing them correctly--he was no scholar of ancient languages, and Akasha's language had lilts of intonation and almost ... melody that were hard to reproduce from a throat used to younger, harsher tongues. From the way amusement had softened those azure features, he had no doubt he was doing the equivalent of baby talk in Ancient; but once again there seemed to be no mockery, no malicious intent in it.

The forest was upon them now, an impenetrable canopy of green flashing by below, with flocks of unfamiliar birds swirling upward, disturbed by their presence, creating a cacophony of noise to herald their arrival. The trees were massive, seemingly untouched by axe or fire, like no forest Cyrus had ever seen, even in the most remote corners of the Empire. Other Ancients, more lightly burdened, had flown ahead--several were now circling lazily around a particular section of forest, using updrafts with easy expertise in order to wait for them.

Akasha spread his wings broadly, flight feathers fanned, breathing deeply as he relaxed from powered flight into a shallow glide. Cyrus too could feel it when they entered the column of warmer rising air, the sudden lofting sense of lightness. They wheeled with other winged vampires in slow revolution, the Ancient's eyes scanning the shadowed spaces between treecrests. Akasha's arms tightened around Cyrus. And then the open skies vanished, swallowed by greenery as they descended. Upper branches flashed by, small at first and then so large three men might walk abreast upon one, without fear of falling. A flock of fragile tree lizards, startled by the vampires, fled from one tree to another on gliding membranes formed of striped skin stretched thin between strangely extended ribs. Strangler figs grew in places, sprouting in the clefts of tree trunks and spooling forth great ropes of aerial root, slung with bearded curtains of moss, that hung as if to catch an errant wingtip, but the Ancient angled between them easily, unconcerned. The forest floor approached rapidly, sickeningly. What seemed at first to be low-lying bushes revealed themselves to be a scattering of saplings, twenty feet tall but thin and sparsely leaved, straining upwards vainly for the little light that might penetrate.

Cyrus braced himself for a jolting impact, but at the last moment, the Ancient changed the angling of his feathers, just a tiny bit. Forward speed abruptly bled away, sacrificed for loft, and with naught more than a single casual back-sweep of wings, they lightly touched down near the base of one of the smaller trees -- a behemoth whose trunk would take the armspan of eight men to encircle. Above, the sky was visible only as a sliver of lemon-gold predawn, crossed by shadows as more Ancients descended. Cyrus' hooves sunk half an inch into the sod as the Ancient released him -- dark-leaf clover carpeted the ground with tiny maroon leaves and tinier violet flowers, the groundcover absent only where the shadows were thickest. But with the return of weight came the return of pain -- thickly scarred tissues protesting the sudden demands upon them. Cyrus stifled a growl, steadying himself with a hand on Akasha's shoulder.

"Are you able to..." the Ancient started, concerned, reaching out. A hiss -- resonant exhalation from a multitude of throats -- cut the still air, and Akasha jerked, turning, reaching for the short blade at his belt. A young forest hydra, its serpentine heads rearing no taller than a man, rounded the trunk of the tree, its heavy body powered by short, thick legs tipped by three-inch claws. The creature spread its green-mottled hoods furiously, its six tongues flicking. It froze, uncertain, a certain bestial intelligence sparking in twelve flat black eyes as the hydra tasted the air, its blunt tail lashing at the soft earth.

Then it fled.

Cyrus bared his fangs in a feral and triumphant grin as the hydra hastily retreated. There were some few creatures that did not fear his kind; but most were fundamentally unnatural, altered by magic or madness. The hydra's decision had been wise indeed.

The creature vanished into the shadows between the trees with reptilian speed, only a flicker of a tail to betray its direction for a moment, then gone. After a moment of watchfulness, Cyrus straightened, stifling a wince as he put pressure upon his wounded leg, forcing the abused muscles to work once more. Once he was sure it would not collapse underneath him, he dropped his hand from Akasha's shoulder, refusing to use the Ancient as a crutch any longer than required. Then he took in their surroundings with appreciation, his eyes lingering upon the green-dappled shadows and that deceptively calm pool of water. Normally Razielim did not camp next to water--especially with fledglings around to test the dangerous substance--but that was a minor flaw in an otherwise perfect location. "This will do well," he said in satisfaction, reaching to touch the minds of those behind with what they had found.

The reply from Cyrus' sire took a moment, but was firm and clear. _We shall be upon you within the hour,_ he sent. And then, textured with a hint of darkly enfolding warmth came the sending: _Well done._

Akasha frowned, watched the undergrowth closely, hand still over the pommel of his short sword. He seemed unconvinced, even if he understood from Cyrus' nod that the site was suitable. But more Ancients were landing, dropping into the thick clover and depositing their burdens with evident relief. They shook out their feathers, stretched, and set to conferring amongst one another, gesturing elegantly, pacing out distances. Cyrus, who was accustomed to the swift discipline with which the Razielim laid and broke camp, could not be certain what the Ancients imagined they were doing. A young female Ancient, evidently bored, meandered up the slight slope atop which Cyrus stood. She exchanged a few words with Akasha, and then broke into a wide, fang-baring grin that, to Razielim sensibilities, seemed like a blatant threat. Yet there was not the least hint of aggression in her manner as she reached out to pat the Razielim. "Cyrus," she said, sounding delighted. She bent to pluck an object from the forest floor, a weathered remnant of the prior autumn. "Leaf, Cyrus?"

Cyrus eyed the brittle brown tatter suspiciously. "Er. Yes, that is a dead leaf," he said wryly, not certain what the Ancient wanted. His gaze slid back to the other blue-skinned vampires, who seemed to be examining the buckles on some of the packs.

"Iss't ah ded-leeb?" the female Ancient mimicked, hopefully.

Akasha, still frowning, went to examine the claw-gouges the hydra had carved into the soft turf in its haste to escape, clearly still not certain why the beast had fled. One of the other Ancients at last managed a buckle meant for a fledgling's soft fingers, and the strap came loose. Carefully folded oil-cloths -- properly assembled and supported, they'd construct the central command tent meant for Raziel, though it had of late more often been utilized as a water-proof shelter for the injured -- spilled out over the ground.

"Ah. Erm ..." Cyrus paused, glancing between the female Ancient's eager face and a few of the others now huddled around the tent-cloths, inspecting them and conversing in a genial manner. After a moment, he decided not to intervene. The fabric was tough, meant to withstand the tugging of taloned fingers; it was unlikely the Ancients could damage it accidentally. He leaned over, plucking another, freshly-fallen leaf from the ground, and held it out to her as he straightened. "Leaf," he said. Then pointed at the dried brown one that she held. "Dead. Leaf."

The female Ancient blinked, tilting her head. Then comprehension dawned. "Ah!" She plucked the second leaf from his talons. "Le-ef. Ded le-ef." She added something in her own tongue, too fast for him to understand.

The female Ancient cocked her head at Cyrus' blank look. She patted her chest. "Bashemath," she repeated, speaking slowly. She gestured towards Cyrus' Ancient. "Akasha. Cyrus."

The named Ancient looked up from the tracks. "Hm?" he asked, returning. He took a seat upon the hump of an exposed, moss-verdant root. "Cyrus knows 'feather', too," Akasha said, spreading one wing forward so that he could examine his own. "Try that. They must really be quite intelligent."

"I think they are," agreed Bashemath. "They're big; I thought they'd be brutish as humans. But they have a word for dilapidated, too. Ah, wait a moment --" Something about Akasha's spread wing had caught her eye, and she stepped forward, reaching. Unsuspecting, Akasha did not withdraw his wing in time, and Bashemath plucked one of its broad flight feathers. "It was broken, anyway. You want the pinfeathers to grow in straight, do you not?" she asked sweetly as Akasha barked a protest, wincing.

Bashemath turned to the Razielim. "Ded feather?" she asked, mixing the languages. She spoke slowly, and held the feather up in demonstration -- it was as long as a man's forearm, glossy black but faintly oil-slick blue when angled just so. The last third had clearly gotten caught on something, however, for the barbs were frizzled and refused to lay flat with the others. Some were missing entirely, leaving the last fingerlength of shaft bare and worn.

Interested by the proceedings, another Ancient left the packs and wandered up the hill. He seated himself on the soft ground, near one of Cyrus' heavy boots. Glancing up, the Ancient patted the ground beside him, silent invitation to sit, and then withdrew a small lute from its case. His soft-skinned talons stroked the strings gently as he began to softly tune the instrument. Down near the packs, the other Ancients seemed to have come to some conclusion. Four of them took up one of the oilcloths -- the top drape of the tent, as it happened -- and spread it out on the ground. One Ancient held up a coil of fine cord, evidently proposing that they suspend the canvas from the surrounding branches. Another Ancient shook his head -- clearly, the fabric was meant to be pegged to the ground.

Cyrus watched the brief conversation betweeen the two Ancients with a keen, if uncomprehending, interest. The fact that he could not yet understand the Ancient tongue was hardly a deterrant; his clan-mates had been reborn from many different eras and regions across Nosgoth, created as Lord Raziel saw fit. Many of them began their existance illiterate, ignorant of anything beyond the scope of their brief and limited human life. Immortality, however, afforded them the time to learn, and the ability to touch mind to mind aided greatly in the learning of other tongues.

"Bashemath," he echoed, then shook his head. "No, not dead, um ...." He searched the ground for a moment, then took a few steps, plucking a twig from a bush, a dead, glossy black beetle, curled on its back, and a mottled gray stone. Returning to the others, he settled himself stiffly to the ground next to Bashemath and the as-yet nameless lute player. Plucking a leaf from the twig, Cyrus lifted it up. "Leaf. Alive." He took another dried leaf from the nearby moss and held it up as well for comparison. "Leaf. Dead." Then he pointed to one of the tiny flowers on the moss between them. "Flower. Alive." The talon moved over, tapped the tiny beetle carcass. "Beetle, dead." Now came the tricky part. Under a certain philosophical standpoint, he supposed the feather could be argued to have been alive while it was attached to its owner, but .... well, philosphy would have to wait. He hefted the stone, and shook his head. "Rock. Not dead. Not alive. Feather ..." he pronounced the Ancient word for it carefully, doing his best not to mangle the lilt at the end, "Not dead. Not alive." Though it was damned impressive, regardless; no flying creature he had known had ever approached the Ancients in wingspan.

Catching a glimpse of the Ancients in a low-voiced discussion over the tent, with another busily tying the cord into a intricate series of knots, he winced. He did not know what the Ancients intended to do with it, but so far their aim did not seem to involve anything resembling a tent. Hoping to forstall Lord Anani's wrath, Cyrus did his best to Whisper to one of the would-be tent builders, sending memories of tying cord, arranging supports, and the sight of the tent itself once the task was complete, sturdy and proof against the elements. He sighed, running talons through short-cropped hair as at least three blue faces turned towards him, all with varying expressions of puzzlement or inquiry. Touching the unfamiliar mind of another Ancient was difficult, and he was not entirely sure he had succeeded in his aim. Needless to say, he would be most grateful once his clan elders had arrived to take up the burden of diplomacy.

A sensation of questioning filtered through a link similar to that employed by Cyrus. The Razielim repeated the sending again, and comprehension seemed to dawn. A single image was plucked from Cyrus' series -- that of the completed tent, with its taut triangular form, supported by unseen staves or saplings -- and repeated back to him, as if the Ancients were double-checking their conclusion. Again the Ancients conferred, then several assisted in untying the knots they'd so laboriously formed. As one, the winged beings stepped back from the flat sheet of oilcloth, as if they expected it to leap up and form a tent of its own accord. Which, in fact, is precisely what happened.

One of the Ancients gestured, spoke a few words. Unnaturally rapidly, something bulged underneath the canvass, bubbled, expanded, lifting the fabric along with. In a scant few seconds, the fabric with edges billowing was draped over an invisible, pyramid-shaped... something. Or nothing. Murmuring amongst themselves appreciatively -- commenting on the casting Ancient's spell-weave -- the Ancients set to pegging the ruffling edges of the tent solidly to the ground. From the outside, the tent looked 'right', looked like Cyrus' image, provided one overlooked the complete absence of any supporting poles.

Bashemath didn't even glance up at the tent-raising. She looked over the objects in Cyrus' hands. "Ah live. Noht ah live." She turned to Akasha. "Do you suppose he means 'worn out'?"

Akasha frowned, combing his talons through the broad sweep of his remaining flight feathers. "I think he means 'returned to God.'

Bashemath shook her head. "That would mean that they believe that leaves and flowers and, oh, even humans can be returned to God. As if they have true souls." Which notion, while patently ridiculous, was... charming. In a childish sort of way. She thought a moment on a means of clarification. "Leg," she said, gesturing towards her own, clad in loose trousers of a flowing, soft fabric. She reached talons towards Cyrus' hip. "Ded leg? Noht ah live ded?" her hand smoothed over the thick leather covering scarred skin; fingers hooked tentatively at the belt of his breeches.

Much to his chagrin, Cyrus found himself gawking like a clod-footed peasant at the tent, now standing sturdy and tall and completely unsupported. He could feel the magic used, distantly, like a fine prickling over the exposed parts of his skin. Such magery was unknown, even by the most esoteric scholars--and the Ancients now chattering with each other about the structure did not seem the least impressed, treating it instead with a casual kind of satisfaction.

Bashemath's question thankfully served to jerk his attention away. Trying to recover his composure, he reflexively yanked away from the touch, scowling at her. "My leg is not dead, woman!" The Clans had no place for weakness--the very thought that the scarred muscles would refuse to heal sent a frisson of fear down his spine. "It is hurt," he snapped, "Not dead. Hurt!"

The Ancient blinked, startled. "Yurt," she agreed placatingly, making gentling, talon-spread gestures with her hands. "Yurt wo-oman lehg. Not-ded." She looked at Akasha helplessly.

Akasha folded his wings tight. The Razielim was clearly discomforted. "Perhaps his injuries are very severe?" he hazarded, sliding from his seat to kneel beside Cyrus, regarding him with concern. But how did one offer comfort to a creature not yet blessed with wings? After a moment's pause, he reached to stroke soft-skinned talons through Cyrus' hair, a poor analogue to the ritual of attending to a multitude of feathers.

"I'm not sure," said Bashemath. Cyrus seemed to still a little under Akasha's hands, and she laid her own lightly back onto his thigh. The Razielim didn't seem to mind the contact -- in fact, he was smiling. Grinning, really. Somewhat oddly, Bashemath thought, but broadly enough to display the full length of his fangs -- leonine and solidly thick, different from her own more vulpine, slightly curved eyeteeth. The twisted ridges of the scar could be felt even through the leather, like great furrows raked in the earth. But Bashemath could smell no blood, fresh or otherwise, and, though it was difficult to tell, it seemed that the muscles were warped thusly because the bones beneath them were badly formed, as if hip and thigh had been crushed. It was amazing that Cyrus could even walk, let alone as well as he had managed. "Perhaps, yes. Do you imagine... he wishes to return to God?" Bashemath asked.

Akasha tilted his head, almost birdlike, as he tried to decipher Cyrus' expression. There was discomfort there, yes, and tension ... did the wound pain him still? "I ... do not think so?" he replied carefully. "He does not seem to be sorrowful ..." Nor was there the expectant relief of one who wished to lay down his burdens. Instead the taut shoulders and stiff back warred with the ivory-pale creature's smiling expression, and Akasha was not sure what to make of the dichotomy.

The lilting conversation between the two Ancients was about him. Of that Cyrus was sure, finding himself under the sudden scrutiny of two sets of golden eyes. That, in and of itself, would not have unnerved him, but--more disconcerting was the way he found himself abruptly hemmed in from both front and back, an Ancient on either side. Oddly enough, there seemed to be nothing threatening in their regard; the air was devoid of blood-hunger or the snap of latent violence, and the Ancients' expressions were as soft as their hands, azure features creased in nothing but concern and gentle confusion.

Disconcerted, he stilled under those caressing talons, unsure how to proceed. He had expected anger, a flare of temper to match his own. Such things were normal, another aspect of the rituals of dominance and submission that were part and parcel of Clan hierarchy. Here though, with these Ancients, he was a fish out of water, an armored and immortal predator faced with feathered, soft-skinned creatures that, for all their vampiric nature, did not act like kin, nor like prey. His first instinct was to snarl those hands away, but foremost in his mind, was Lord Raziel's command to the Clan: the Ancients were to be treated with respect. His Lord would be most displeased if he arrived only to find that Cyrus had offended them over something so minor as a few importunate touches. And, he had to confess, there was a certain ... pleasure in the tug of those delicate talons through his hair, even if it felt uncomfortably akin to being treated like a human girl-child.

"Erm ..." Cyrus glanced down at Bashemath's hand upon his thigh, hoping she did not follow Akasha's example. Her hand was soft and warm, even through the heavy leather of his breeches. And while arousal was not quite as embarrassing as weakness, somehow he did not think such relations were what Lord Raziel had in mind!

"No," Bashemath agreed, "not sorrowful." She moved closer and sniffed. The Razielim smelled both bitterly metallic and musky, somewhat dry -- though as to what those scents might signify, she could not begin to hazard a guess. But as Bashemath leaned forward, the steely muscles under her hand jerked, trembled. The Ancient hurredly eased the pressure, murmuring an apology as she carefully stroked the offended limb.

The lute player, too, had been examining Cyrus, albeit somewhat more covertly. A Razielim elder's claws would have shredded the strings of his instrument in a single pass; the Ancient seemed to have no difficulties, idly plucking tuneless but soothing chords. "Far be it from me to disparage our guests' medical arts," he said, "but do you suppose they tried the usual course of first aid? The standard healing potion or liniments, perhaps?"

"Good question," Bashemath shrugged, and addressed the Razielim. "Cyrus? Le-af, Cyrus?" She sent an image -- several types of plant material Cyrus didn't recognize, pounded, moistened, and then folded into a square of linen to form a bandage.

"What?" Cyrus demanded, incredulous. He surely miscomprehended; t'would be the act of a madman to willingly place anything wet -- particularly a sodden fistful of vegetables -- anywhere near a wound. There were some very inventive schools of torture based on just such a premise.

The Ancients appeared to take that for a 'no.' Akasha, who had been sorting through the pouches at his belt, found the object he sought. "Ah. Did you use some of these, Cyrus?" he asked, handing over a small glass vial, perhaps the size of a human's index finger. The liquid within was blue, and faintly luminescent. It was smaller than the rune-wrapped silver flasks used by warriors in the heat of combat -- Razielim warlocks produced those in number, condensing and storing the essence of vitae against future need. If nothing else, the color of this draught argued against it being a restorative of that nature.

Frowning, brow furrowed with varying parts anger, confusion, and curiosity, Cyrus turned his attention to the vial. He set the tips of his talons into the stopper and eased it from the tube. The scent of the liquid was distinctive, like fresh rain, and Cyrus quickly recorked it. Why would one of the first vampires attempt to give him a healing potion meant for the mortal slave races? If it was like unto the ones the Razielim used, it wouldn't particularly hurt him, but certainly it would not help. "I... thank you, but I do not believe I can use this," he said, offering it back.

Akasha accepted the vial, but looked increasingly concerned. He spoke for a time with the female, who seemed equally worried. After a few moments they seemed to reach a conclusion; Bashemath nodded firmly... and started unbuckling the clasp of Cyrus' belt.

"W-what are you ....?" Cyrus stammered, his belt undone by those clever fingers before he could even think to push them away. Bashemath chirped something reassuring--or nonthreatening, at the least--and began to tug the heavy leather of his breeches downward. She was aided in this by their ill-fitting nature-- though they once had been nearly skin-tight, the Hylden's magic had eroded the once-firm muscle of his leg, and while the furrowed surface had long since sealed over, the rest of the underlying flesh had remained withered and misshapen, rebuilding itself only slowly. He tried to pull away even as the extent of his wounds were revealed, his movements inadvertantly aiding the Ancients' attempts to divest him of his breeches. "Enough--I will not have you gawki--!" The Ancients, while they could not match him strength for strength, were still surprisingly potent in their determination. Breaking Bashemath's grip was proving much more difficult than he had anticipated! His eyes were wide with apprehension as Bashemath spoke with Akasha, gesturing at the vial, even as she patted his thigh soothingly.

"Such horrible wounds, Akasha!" Bashemath's face was full of sympathy as the full measure of Cyrus' wounding became apparent. Such damage, unfortunately, was not unknown to the Ancients; they too had many warriors suffer from the twisted magics of the Hylden during the War. But none had ever survived such a mortal wound--those few who had not fallen from the sky had swiftly chosen to return to God, that He might relieve them of their agony. "No wonder he refused the healing draught--it would do little against *this*." She touched the edges of the twisted scars, suddenly wishing she were a healer, that she might cure some of that pain.

To be sure, the fact that Cyrus was reluctant, as yet, to lay a hand in anger upon the Ancients curtailed the effectiveness of his resistance. When Bashemath peeled the breeches far enough to tangle the Razeilim's knees, Akasha too frowned at the sight of the twisted scarring down Cyrus' leg. The runnels fissured so deep that the very shape of the limb was deformed. Just above the knee, the skin was perfect once more, harsh contrast to the evidence of fearsome injury. But the wound was well-healed, however poorly; it was clear that no amount of first aid would make any difference. Still, something else troubled the Ancient, as his attention drifted from the extent of Cyrus' scarring. He paused, cleared his throat.

"Do you suppose... they're capable of a mating flight?"

Bashemath blinked. Her hands both lay spread over the ruin of skin and muscle and fractured remnants of subdermal armor plating, as if covering the wound might somehow ease the ache. "Well, they don't have wings yet, so..." Cyrus' breeches were bunched around his knees, so it wasn't difficult to notice what had caught Akasha's attention. Her eyes widened. "Oh. Ah. I see what you mean."

"One might worry about... disengagement?" Or rather, to put perhaps too fine a point on it, becoming stuck. T'would do neither partner any good, Akasha imagined, to spiral earthward in a helpless mass of feathers and silk, unable to... err. Well. Curious and concerned, Akasha reached down. The Razielim's manhood differed from an Ancient's in more than size, however -- Cyrus' flesh was firm, but somewhat giving, and silkily smooth against the warmth of his hand.

"Hm," said Bashemath, looking on as Akasha very carefully tilted the organ up on open palm for a better view. "Gana didn't say anything about, ah, logistical problems, though. I'll have to ask her. But I imagine everything works roughly as normal...."

 _Cyrus._ The sudden contact by Cyrus' sire was darksome, the mind behind it a heavy, gold-shot obscurity. Oberon was twenty-second of Anani, but first among the Razielim mages. He did not sound well-pleased.

Only too late now did the sound of panicked birds alighting in flight reach Cyrus' ears -- and if the bulk of the Razielim were so close as to frighten the wildlife, the advance scouts must be closer still.... A frantic glance confirmed that the rest of the Ancients had 'erected' the remainder of the Razielim tents in no particular layout and, more disturbingly, in no particular shape: in domes or tall rectangles, pentagons or angled pyramids, without regard to the actual intended purpose of the shelters. Several ground-cloths and a number of oilskin wraps had been mistakenly assembled as tents -- when had that happened? And was that the gold of eyes, or of new young leaves, glinting in the shadows?

Cyrus' worst fears proved themselves true as the first advance Razielim stepped out from the deep shadows of the trees. They moved noiselessly, using the twilight of the tree canopy like the nocturnal hunters they were, with barely a rustle of leaf or branch to mark their entrance.

And worse ... his Sire was among them.

Oberon was both broad and tall, his body an imposing wall of muscle and bone that, at first glance, would have seemed far more suited to the brutish Dumahim heavy infantry than the rarified mage-scholars of the Razielim. Faced with the disapproving stare from that heavy-planed face, a scowl beginning to twist the mouth under Oberon's crooked beak of a nose, Cyrus scrambled to his feet, his embarrassment urging him to cast away caution in pushing the Ancients' hands aside. Those of Kain's blood could not blush, no matter how mortal the embarrassment. That was no salve to his chagrin as he scrambled to both tuck his importunate flesh away (made easier by the fact that his burgeoning erection had swiftly wilted at the sight of his Sire) and gather up his undone breeches.

"Master," he murmured, sinking to one knee and bowing his head in apology. There was no excuse he could give that would not sound ... feeble, or at best, self-indulgent. Clutching the loose lacings of his clothing together, he dared to reach out and Whisper what he did not wish to say aloud. _The Ancients ... I did not wish to give offense. I did not intend ...._ He trailed off, as he did not even know what the Ancients' attentions had truly meant.

Bashemath was nearly spilled over backwards as Cyrus staggered upright, rudely shoving her hands aside. Her black wings splayed out over the moss. “What…? Oh! Hello.” She waved, offering a broad though somewhat confused smile to the newly arrived Razielim, one of whom was larger even than Cyrus.

Oberon acknowledged the threat with a slight narrowing of orange-gold eyes; then ignored it. He'd offered his spawn a measure of approval before; there was no trace of it now. “Did not intend what, Cyrus?” Oberon’s gaze was the same smoke-haze shade as the tattoos that crawled over every inch of visible flesh – hooves, talons, the feral breadth of his face. There were few, now, who remembered the painted tribes of the south, but long ago they had posed great impedance to the Empire’s expansion. Their shamans had carved mageries into their very skins, not only to direct and focus magic but also specifically to prevent themselves being raised as vampires. Since humans often, though not always, preserved something of their magical talents upon being turned, this did much to deprive the Razielim of their most valuable potential recruits. Oberon’s raising had been the result of more than a year of study and ritual by Anani and the Razielim’s few mages. Again and again over the years, Oberon had proved the wisdom of that expenditure of time. But his tattoos had never faded.

“Did not intend to place yourself on display? To make of your weakness _and my line_ an exhibition, a play upon pity? To permit this… bedlam to take place? What exactly, prithee tell, _did_ you intend?” Oberon’s gesture took in the well-meaning jumble of shelters at the foot of the gentle hill. He made no effort to keep his communication silent, or even quiet as he stalked up the incline, his heavy hooves crushing beneath him the small fragile violets. Others of the Razielim advance guard turned away -- correction was a Sire's private matter, performed publicly or no. Several moved to determine what could be done with the oddly-erected tents, two of which were already covered an with unnaturally rapid growth of pink-flowering vines where an Ancient had evidently decided to express a certain amount of... personal creativity. But it was clear they heard.

Petrus, commander of the advance guard, likewise did not interfere. He gestured silently, and several Razielim vanished into the greenery to rapidly scout and defend a perimeter. The tents, though... he scratched his head. Tekoa, by his side, shrugged. He stepped forward, set his claws under one edge of a tent, and lifted, pulling up the pegs. The form promptly deflated with a whoosh of displaced air, attracting half a dozen of the nearby Ancients. "This one must needs be at the center, over there," Tekoa explained slowly, as patiently as he might to a fledgling, using the archaic form of the High Common tongue that some of the blue vampires seemed to understand. "Also, lower, so no light enters. And... that piece is meant to be a partition. A screen. It is not a separate tent. You see?" The Ancients around him nodded, eager and interested, though some kept glancing towards Oberon.

Akasha stood along with Cyrus, looking back and forth between the wounded vampire and the larger one, doing his best to guess at what might be occurring. Whatever it was, Cyrus did not seem as if he were enjoying the exchange. The lute player's music died out.

This was not the first time Cyrus had been chastised by his Sire--nor even the first time it had happened publicly. Oberon was not one to suffer folly of any stripe, nor inadequacy ... and Cyrus, who had not inherited the skill in sorcery possessed by his Sire, had been made well aware of his shortcomings over the decades. His life had hung by a thread more than once--only his skill upon the battlefield had spared him from being culled by his Sire, so that another, more capable vampire might be raised in his place.

Miserably aware that he had little defense against Oberon's accusations, Cyrus turned his head, exposing the line of his throat to his Sire, even as he kept eyes steadfastly upon the ground. "I did not have the right to command them, master," he said carefully, reclaiming what shreds of dignity he had left. "Regardless, the fault is mine--I should have not allowed myself to be importuned in such a way." He waited, his limbs tensed in anticipation of pain as he awaited Oberon's judgment.

Akasha looked between the two strange vampires, frowning. The others' work continued around the conflict, with the Ancients assisting as the new arrivals dismantled a great deal of their earlier efforts. The tension in the glade was suddenly thick enough to cut with a blade, and while the words might be alien, their nature--by turns accusatory and conciliating--was not. The new vampire's anger seemed to ruffle the air like heat-mirages, more felt than seen. "We must have erred, somehow," he murmured to Bashemath. "Do you think we violated some manner of taboo?" Perhaps Cyrus and this stranger were mated?

"How?" Asked Bashemath, looking between the Razielim. She gathered her legs under her, standing slowly. The other Razielim, though they were moving the Ancients' carefully erected structures, did not seem angry. Like Akasha, she considered that, given the way Cyrus was clutching with both hands the belt and laces of his breeches, perhaps the tension was sexual in some way. But such jealousy was unseemly, certainly nothing to broadcast thusly -- and even if it were true, where was their third? No -- most likely, this was Cyrus' commander. Perhaps he was angry because Cyrus had sat whilst others worked, which was of course patently ridiculous, since there were plenty who actually wanted to set up tents, and anyway Cyrus was injured. Maybe the commander didn't know how seriously.

Both hands spread placatingly, Bashemath stepped in betwixt the Razielim. "I Bashemath," she said haltingly in the High Common tongue, words thickly accented, "Cyrus just fine. No trouble, but should make resting good, longtime....."

The sight of Cyrus cowering behind a *woman*... Oberon came to a halt within arms' reach of the Ancient. He could have snapped her neck in a single movement, but his gaze and attention were not upon her. "Get back to your unit," Oberon said, voice low and syllabant with revulsion. The warlock might not have had permission -- yet -- to prune this deadwood from his bloodline, but he could do a great deal more to his errant spawn than simply slay him.

Cyrus winced as Bashemath stepped forward to defend him, feeling the heat of his Sire's anger beating hot against his skin. Afraid that Bashemath would suffer the brunt of Oberon's wrath, Lord Raziel's orders or not, he rose to his feet, grasping her arm and moving her out of the way as carefully as he could. "Master ..."

Raziel's entrance was like the wash of a biting wind against the angry haze of Oberon's temper. "Oberon." Their clan-lord stepped into the glade, Ancients to either side and the rest of the Clan at his back. Their lord was slight next to Oberon's muscular bulk, but it did not matter; the dark rise of his power was all-encompassing, snuffing out Oberon's aura like the feeblest candle-flame. There was the barest flicker of--amusement?--as those golden eyes flicked over Cyrus' dishevelled state, but it swiftly vanished as Raziel took in Oberon's scowling countenance. "Enough. What has transpired here, Oberon?" He glanced at Anani, tacitly including him in the judgment. "I would have thought you would know better than to ... exercise old grievances. Especially now, in front of *them*." Raziel spoke in the tongue of the Empire, not wishing to compound Oberon's error by allowing the Ancients to eavesdrop.

Oberon inclined his head, clasped briefly a hand over his heart. "Would that this grievance were old, my Lord," he said, teeth gritted. "I arrived to find my progeny in flagrante delicto, whilst the camp lay... thusly." Oberon's gaze flicked to the shrouded man who rode with the third rank of Razielim. Tarrant's weakness in sunlight was still something of a mystery, for during some battles the man had strode in full daylight. Yet at most times, like now, the mage avoided even the weakest ray of light, retreating at once to his usual shelter -- which at the moment, appeared to have been assembled inside out.

Bashemath, from her place in Cyrus' grasp, watched Oberon's face with concern. The commander continued to speak, too rapidly for her to pick out any of the handful of words she knew. The hulking vampire clearly hadn't understood her, but how to convey her point? Bashemath reached down to pat the injured Razielim's thigh. "Yurt lehg, wo-oman notded," she said, hopefully.

"...though it seems he found time to make effort at teaching Empire Common," finished Oberon, somewhat incredulous. Posessing a language which others did not understand was an advantage -- and like all advantages, was to be hoarded, kept, secreted. What fool would imagine otherwise?

Raziel blinked at Bashemath's bizarre pronouncement, unable to fathom the meaning behind the words. The Ancient seemed to be defending Cyrus, that was at least evident, a thing Raziel found somewhat heartening in spite of Oberon's indignation. "That would not have been the tongue I would have chosen, no," he replied mildly, watching Cyrus' head droop at the implied reprimand. "There are other languages that would have been more suitable, perhaps. But I will not fault him for seeking to teach -- and to learn, I would wager, from the Ancients." He waved a taloned hand at the unnatural tents, supported by nothing but magic, that the Ancients were now conferring with the newly-arrived Razielim upon. "It should be evident even to you, Oberon, that there is much we could gain from them." The Razielim could not hold themselves apart from the Ancients in this time--not and expect to thrive as a Clan. If Oberon's arrogant faith in his own ability blinded him to that, then steps would need to be taken, either by Anani, or Raziel himself.

Cyrus, startled at his Lord's unexpected defense, straightened again, his chin lifting a little in pride. Even if his motives had not been quite so elaborate as Lord Raziel would have preferred, the very fact that the clan lord had spoken for him was an unlooked-for honor!

Raziel glanced at Bashemath and Akasha. Switching to the ancient human tongue, that he might be understood, he asked, "Cyrus was teaching you our language?"

"Yes, Savior," Bashemath nodded. At least, she thought so. She still wasn't clear regarding what most of the words she'd learned actually meant yet.

Akasha's High Common was better than hers. "We were concerned about the extent of Cyrus' injuries, so we undressed him. Additionally, I was curious regarding his physical build. Is there... some manner of taboo we might be aware of, amongst your kindred? A class of impropriety, perhaps?"

"Is this commander of Cyrus?" Bashemath interjected, looking towards Oberon. "Why he angry? Because Cyrus should of the resting. Not to stand, make cloth house."

From the third rank, Tarrant guided his mount around the dispersing but orderly units of Razielim, reigns held loosely in hands gloved and swaddled against the bright predawn. He was the only rider in the entire army -- every other beast of burden was laden with supplies and equipment. Tarrant, however, had flatly informed the supply chiefs that he would not be surrendering his altered horse to the same purpose. The nightmarish black beast paced to where Tekoa and two Ancients were just completing the central command tent. Without a word, Tarrant dismounted and stalked under its cover. Tekoa took a step forward -- "...what?" he started, just as an impenatrably opaque, black curtain flowed over the shelter's doorway.

"He is Cyrus' ... Maker," Raziel said carefully. The human tongue did not have the proper word for 'Sire'--at least, none that truly conveyed all the multilayered meanings of the title. "You would perhaps call him his ... father? He does not believe Cyrus' wounds should be exposed to others. They are a weakness, though they will heal in time." Regardless of whether Oberon truly wanted them to. It was not the first time Raziel had wondered if perhaps he had done Cyrus a disservice by allowing him to live, regardless of Oberon's wishes. It was a difficult thing to exist, knowing that your Sire wished it otherwise. For all the times Kain had disciplined Raziel for real or perceived errors in judgment, he at least had known that his Sire valued his service. "He also believes that Cyrus intended to indulge in sex, and in so doing, neglected his duties." Raziel watched the two Ancients, eyebrows arched upward in inquiry as he waited for their response.

Behind the group involved in the dispute, the rest of the Razielim had fanned out and the camp was swiftly beginning to take shape. Tents were taken down and re-made, much more swiftly than usual thanks to the Ancients' assistance, until they spread outward in orderly ranks from the central command tent. With a shrug, Tekoa handed off the reins of Tarrant's ebony horse-creature to another waiting vampire, and gave swift commands for the disposition of the rest of the supplies. The rest of the warhorses, once divested of their burdens, would be corralled upon one side of the pool, both for the animals' convenience and the vampires' own. Such arrangements both gave the horses easy access to water and kept the deadly stuff further away from the encampment. The Ancients had also erected many of the tents far too close to the banks of the deadly liquid; they too would need to be moved to a safer distance.

Nearly two hundred Ancients had collected amongst the Razielim, and mingled with great interest -- though they tended, with their broad wings and preference for casual strolling, to rather get in the way. Near the grassy and somewhat better-lighted verge where the horses were to be corraled, a pair of the blue-skinned vampires attempted to assist a number of Razielim fledglings with unloading the animals' packs and burdens. After one horse managed to snap a large mouthful of feathers, the Ancients contented themselves with dragging the offloaded objects into one of several piles, under the tentative direction of a young fledgling. The Ancients halted, however, as three rather particular items were unstrapped from the horses. The bundles were body-shaped, appearing like nothing so much as corpses wrapped in shrouding. "You have brought your dead?" asked one of the Ancients slowly, laying a respectful hand on one of the bodies. He offered the Razielim fledgling an image of a warrior, eyes closed in repose, and a sense of questioning.

At the center of the camp, Akasha blinked, startled. "Intended to mate?" he asked. "With what?" There hadn't been any other Razielim around at the time. And what did taking off someone's vestments have to do with a mating flight, in any case?

Bashemath cleared her throat, inclining her head slightly towards the Nature Guardian. Ziliah, who stood placidly nearby Raziel, bore a faint, cheshire-cat smile.

"Oh...." Akasha considered the wounded Razielim. Somehow, he had not precicely applied to himself the understanding that relations were possible -- and according to Bashemath's third-hand information, quite satisfactory -- between the races. He glanced to Bashemath, who shrugged agreeably. "Would he like to?" Akasha asked Raziel. Though doing so without inadverdantly exposing Cyrus' past wounds, which was evidently inappropriate, would take some consideration.

Raziel, still very aware of the scowling Oberon nearby, suppressed a smile with some effort. "That I cannot answer--you will have to address your interest to him. But I do not think he will have time until we have made camp and he is relieved of his duties." He turned back to an uncomprehending Cyrus and a glowering Oberon. "Cyrus, return to your unit and help make camp. The Ancients, of course, may choose to assist where they please." He glanced at Ziliah, switching back to the human tongue. "Though we may need to speak further on what expectations there might be, so as to prevent future misunderstandings before they occur...."

Over with the horses, the fledglings looked at each other in surprise at the Ancient's image. Settling the unwieldy bundles upon the grass with far more meticulous care than they had used with the rest of the baggage, Niran, the eldest of the group, shrugged, then nodded in answer. The warriors wrapped within had entered the state of change, in order that they might receive the Dark Gifts of their elders, and as such required protection until they were released from their enforced slumber. The others unwrapped some additional oiled canvas, spreading it carefully over the bodies. There was no scent of rain upon the air, but the clan took no chances in the care of their helpless brethren.

"Misunderstandings?" asked Ziliah of Raziel, curiously. The Ancients were as they were -- and as they had always been. What was there about them or their culture to misunderstand?

Near the lake, the pair of Ancients nodded sorrowfully, their faces composed in an expression of mournful acceptance. They, too, brought their dead to water -- specifically the deep waters, which were blessed of God. This small lake was not perfect, but it was probably acceptable. "We should arrange for the pyre," murmured one of the Ancients, after a moment, sending a summons to several other of the winged vampires nearby.

The Razielim fledglings exchanged glances as more Ancients crowded close, all appearing decidedly solemn. Several others of the blue-skinned vampires had abruptly left their prior tasks, turning instead to gathering up branches and fallen logs from the surrounding woods.

"Do you suppose they have completed the last rites?" asked one Ancient, as he dragged a large log to the cluster of vampires, laying the firewood down next to the wrapped bodies.

"I am unsure," admitted one of the first Ancients. He looked to the Razielim who had shrugged. "Shall we build the raft now?" he asked, offering up a series of three images: first a dozen large logs all bound together; then the three corpses respectfully laid out upon it. And finally, the raft pushed to the deepest part of the lake and set alight.

On the other side of the camp and well away from the water, Ferris, whose fledgling had assaulted one of the Ancients, was handling an issue of his own. He alone among the serving men did not set to laying camp -- rather, Ferris passed his pack to another vampire. Selecting a tree with smooth bark near the center of the circle in which his company was laying their camp, he drove a stiletto into the wood, sinking it to the hilt, at the height of his reach. Then he uncoiled a length of rope from his belt. His fledgling trailed along during all the preparations, clearly nervous, bright golden eyes flicking from knife to rope to tree. But he did not seem to connect their meanings until Ferris seized one of his wrists and bound it.

The fledgling burst into squalling struggle, clawing and writhing. Ferris appeared unimpressed as he bound the other wrist, smoothly ducked a wild swing, and dragged the young vampire to the tree. He hooked the bindings over the hilt of the stiletto, hanging the fledgling there, his face against the papery bark. As Ferris started to remove the fledgling's shirt, however, the newly made vampire began to howl. Nearby Ancients looked up, suddenly concerned. Ferris wrapped a clawed hand tight around his progeny's throat, cutting the sound off abruptly -- throttling wouldn't hurt even a very young vampire, but if they could not draw breath, they could produce no sound. "Now. What have I told you about screaming?" Ferris growled in the fledgling's ear.

The Razielim around the pair of them worked on, utterly unconcerned by either the fledgling's squalling or Ferris' growls. The nearby Ancients, however ... they did not *gawk*, precisely, but there were more than a few uneasy sidelong glances and fluffed wings. Having not been present for the fledgling's original trespass, the Razielim's treatment of the younger vampire was both inexplicable and disturbing in its cavalier violence.

Across the camp, Niran sucked in a horrified breath at the images the Ancient had sent. "They mean to kill them!" Baring fangs in a snarl, he leaped to place himself between the nearest Ancients and the sleeping Razielim. At his cry, the rest of the fledglings did the same, shoving Ancients roughly away and swiping at them with five-fingered, black-clawed hands, snarling at any who came near. The nearest horses added to the ruckus, rearing and neighing as they picked up the vampires' anger and confusion. The Ancients, taken off-guard by the unprovoked attack, retreated, hands held up placatingly as more Razielim came to investigate the disturbance. Madai, long since recovered from the wounds Raziel had given him upon their meeting, shoved his way to the forefront. "What is all this?" he snapped, glaring at both parties impartially.

"The winged ones wish to set the sleepers afire, and sink them in the lake!" cried one of the fledges, eyes wide and horrified at the thought of such a fate. Even the mere words prompted more snarls from his brethren.

"What?" Madai rounded upon the Ancients, switching to the human tongue he had heard the others use. Unfortunately, he was far from fluent in it. "You kill the dead ones? Why?"

"What?" The addressed Ancient blinked his lemon-yellow eyes. "We didn't kill anyone. They were already dead." His tone was bewildered -- did the Razielim somehow believe the Ancients had -- what? Slain their warriors, wrapped them in shrouding, and then hidden them in amongst the Razielim's baggage? All without being detected?

Beside him, a tall, slender female Ancient lowered her hands -- she'd been about to erect a repulsive shield -- smiling in nervous relief. "We sorrow for your losses. But surely you will not consign the bodies of your slain to the chill earth, so far from sun and sky?" Cautiously, she offered an image similar to the one her cohort had sent. This time, however, the several shrouded bodies were replaced by that of a single Ancient, laid out on his back, eyes closed, wreathed with flowers that tangled between the battered feathers of his wings. The next image, in which flames leapt and crackled high as they consumed the raft, remained the same.

Across camp, the commotion did not distract Ferris from his purpose. Though the nearby Ancients sensed only a weak and wordless whispered reply, Ferris seemed satisfied with the answer, for he removed his hand. The fledgling swallowed hard, but he did not continue his prior screaming, even as Ferris finished pulling up his roughly-spun shirt, knotting the fabric behind his neck, baring the whole of the fledgling's back. Ferris stroked down his creation's side for a moment, talons harsh and white against skin so new it still bore a mortal's tan. "Good boy," said Ferris. Then he broke a long, whippy section of branch from a nearby bush and, with claws like heavy knives, set to stripping the bark from it.

Madai recoiled from the image of the Ancient upon the pyre, though his reaction was less extreme than that of the fledges. "They not dead!" he said, shifting to put himself between the fledges and the Ancients. "They are ..." He stopped, frustrated as his limited grasp of the ancient human tongue failed him. "Damnation!" He turned to another of the Razielim. "Jabin--can you explain?"

Jabin nodded, stepping forward. "They are not dead," he said slowly, carefully, waving a hand at the wrapped forms. "They are merely sleeping. Their bodies ... they are changing, and they must sleep until it is time to wake." It went against the grain to expose the utter vulnerability of their brethren so, but there seemed to be no other choice if they were to preserve them from the Ancients' well-meaning folly. "They live. Do you understand?" From the puzzled looks he was being given, he was not entirely sure they did.

"They are changing? Changing what?" asked the pale-eyed Ancient, frowning at the wrapped bundles behind the Razielim, which were so thoroughly being protected. The corpses, as might be expected, appeared to be doing nothing. He addressed the question towards Madai -- though he'd seemed willing enough to work with the five-fingered Razielim before, when faced now with both a clawed elder and a fledgling, his gaze seemed to skip over the younger.

"Tamesis... if they're, ah, sleeping..." which was patently ridiculous, but the female Ancient was willing to concede the point, since it seemed so important to the Razielim, "...shouldn't they be unwrapped? Allowed some fresh air?" If they weren't returned to God to begin with, then rolling them up in sackcloth surely couldn't be helping.

Tamesis shrugged a little. "Do you mean 'wake' as an euphanism for returning to God?" he asked, trying to determine if perhaps there was some ritually significant date upon which it was only proper to dispose of corpses.

Ferris tested the weight and spring of his freshly-peeled cane in his hands. He slapped the implement into the palm of one hand, judging the whistling hiss the tool made as it cut the air -- then he snapped off six inches of the thicker part of the cane, shortening it. Again Ferris tested it, and this time seemed pleased by the impact. He stepped to within an arms' reach of his fledgling, just to one side. He struck without warning or pause, drawing a pale pink welt between the bound neonate's shoulder blades. The fledgling whimpered, ducked his head against the tree's bark. A second line appeared a neat three fingers beneath the first. But as Ferris raised his arm for a third stroke, he was abruptly halted -- albeit largely with simple shock. A slender Ancient, the one whose skin seemed oddly frosted, the one who had attempted to take up Bentham's pack... now clung grimly to his upraised fist.

 

"Returning to ... ?" 'God', in the Empire, meant Kain, and no other. Jabin frowned, confused. "No--no! They will ... er, wake. Eventually. When they are ready." He honestly did not know how to begin answering the Ancients' other questions. "We will guard them, until they do." There was a ripple in the crowd as Raziel and his guard approached, diverted from the squabble between Oberon and Cyrus to the commotion both audible and Whispered, and Jabin relinquished his position as spokesman with a great deal of relief. "My lord! I am endeavoring to explain, but ..."

Raziel felt a sudden urge to rub his temples as he was bombarded by a great many excited and angry Whispers at once. Most were not directed *at* him, true, but the flaring auras of his Razielim made for a most uncomfortable atmosphere. "The warriors you see before you are not to be disturbed." His tone was flat, brooking no dissent. "They are not dead. They are changing into the next stage of the Dark Gift, and will be insensible until they are ready to rejoin the world." He glanced at Ziliah, who had remained silent thus far. "Are we agreed?"

Ferris, having now found himself involved in an altercation of his own, frowned at the Ancient. "Why do you interfere?" he asked, more puzzled than angry.

The slender young sylph continued tugging at Ferris' fist, speaking rapidly in the flowing tongue most of the winged ones seemed to use. It wasn't clear what the Ancient wanted -- and already, Ferris' fledgling was beginning to twist around. At first the neonate was content to peer at this interruption to the discipline. Then, evidently concluding that Ferris was distracted, he brought his sandaled feet up to push against the tree trunk, wriggling in crafty silence to work the stiletto free. There was more prey; it was standing right there, and if his Sire didn't want it, he most certainly did.

As not even the full weight of his body caused Ferris' fist to move in the slightest, the Ancient attempted to pry the thin cane from his talons instead. The effort was utterly futile, of course. But now the pair of them were attracting further attention: both concerned Razielim, who would not otherwise have dreamed of interrupting Ferris at a critical time like this any more than they would have interrupted Oberon previously; and more Ancients, whose expressions were upset or dismayed. Ferris cast a glance back at his errant spawn, checking to make sure the neonate had not yet worked the dagger free -- this was far from his first choice of venues for this activity, but what other place was available? And now what was he supposed to do?

The slender Ancient, unable to slide the cane even a little from the grip of Ferris' serrated talons, abruptly changed tactics... and snapped the branch in half, leaving Ferris holding a two-foot twig.

Near the lake, Ziliah nodded, though she spoke perhaps more casually than the Razielim around her might have liked, as if she considered the error understandable. "As you wish. I will ensure that the information is broadcast. What is this... Dark Gift?" As far as apologies went, it was a poor one; fledglings were yet trembling with outrage. Either fire or water -- and the Razielim had special cause to loathe that particular death sentence -- was a hard way to die; both at once, and inflicted upon the helpless, would be....

Feeling the anger of his Clan ebb and flare, Raziel sighed. He glanced at Anani. _Double the guard upon those in the Change. I do not wish any ... overzealous mistakes made._ His firstborn nodded, and silent commands sent warriors to new posts--the guarding of those sleeping Razielim would no longer be left to fledglings alone.

"Niran. Attend me." Niran nearly stumbled over his own feet as he hurried to Raziel, wide-eyed and somewhat apprehensive. "Niran is .... a fledgling. Newly made." At Raziel's urging, Niram displayed his five fingered hands, his booted feet; demonstrated the softness of his pale skin. Raziel then displayed his own talons, spreading them next to Niran's outstretched hand, unfurled his wings to contrast to Niran's wingless state. "As Niran ages, he will gain new attributes--new power. Vampires do not grow as living creatures--we stay the same, until the time comes for us to change. Then ... we sleep, and our bodies change around us." 'Sleep' was not precisely accurate--at least not as humans knew the state. But there was truly no other word for it, not in the human tongue. Raziel looked at Ziliah, then the curious faces of the other Ancients, waiting to see if they understood.

Ferris' face darkened at the alien vampire's interference. "Enough. I shall discipline my fledgling as I see fit!" He tossed away the now-useless bit of wood and snarled at the Ancient. Taking advantage of his Sire's distraction, the fledgling wriggled free with the quickness of a eel--and flung himself at the nearest Ancient, fangs bared in a hunting snarl. Such an abundance of living prey, more than he had ever known--the fledgling was overwhelmed, nearly giddy at the scent of the blood in the air.

The target was not the small Ancient who argued with the fledgling's Sire -- the neonate was canny enough to realize that an assault on that one might be a short affair, if Ferris had already claimed it -- but rather one who was passing by. Hands bound before him, the fledgling was unable to properly utilize his still-short nails, but his weight and his fist was sufficient to tumble the Ancient over. The winged man emitted a surprised-sounding squeak as the fledgling flung himself atop, grappling furiously. The young vampire's first mouthful was of silk, the next of feathers -- but now there was the scent of blood on the air. Just a few drops, but so gloriously sweet, as clear as twilight and open skies....

Part bewildered, part bemused -- he was not particularly hurt; was this some mad Razielim game? -- and part stunned by the blow upside the head, the Ancient managed resistance that was confused and largely ineffectual. But he did raise a forearm before the next bite found his throat. Fangs cut through blue skin as easily as they would a human's soft flesh, yet the vitae that flowed in response wasn't human at all. So much sweeter, nothing mortal, tart and heady in a way that seemed to fill the back of his throat -- the fledgling nearly aspirated some of the blood in his greed as he gripped the bleeding forearm, twisting, wrenching, biting down again. This time, the Ancient screamed.

At the lakeside, Ziliah's gaze sharpened. "This process -- the sleep in which these three are engaged -- results in the development of talons and wings?" she asked, suddenly interested and concerned. If it was like unto the manner in which a creeping caterpillar became a butterfly, then... "Then they should be under cover. Or at least on mats or... cushions of some sort. Do they require particular temperatures? Perhaps over..." her senses were not so sharp as Raziel's, but even a human could not have missed the sudden uproar from across the camp.

The shrill scream of agony pierced the air, and Raziel wasted no time. _Guard them!_ he snapped to Anani. His wings unfurled, snapping against the air. _Let no Ancients approach!_ A leap, and he was in the air, fast and low, heading for the source of the uproar. The chaos was soon plain to see; Ancients rushing inward, Razielim attempting to hold them at bay, even as Ferris leaped upon the fledgling currently feasting upon a prone, winged form. The elder Razielim snaked an arm about his fledgling's neck, wrenching him brutally upward as the younger vampire squalled and snapped at the air, his face smeared with crimson blood. The Ancients' cries of alarm and the whimpers of the fledgling's victim only added to the cacaphony, and provided the final straw to Raziel's temper.

"Silence!!"

The roar reverberated between the trees. A wash of power rolled over the inhabitants like a tidal surge as Raziel landed. Taking two steps, he backhanded the younger vampire with bone-crushing force, flinging both fledgling and sire backwards, into the ground. Standing over the wounded Ancient's prone form, he heard the rush of wings as Ziliah landed. "A healing draught. Swiftly!" Two of the encircling Razielim immediately proffered their blood glyphs--the precious few vials of enchanted blood that remained to them.

Taking them, he turned to Ziliah. "Will blood help him to heal?" The Ancient moaned faintly, eyes rolling and vague as he clutched at his maimed arm, blood leaking steadily between his fingers.

Ziliah was swift and assured under the pressures of battle -- or rather, soon-to-be battle. Several Ancients had drawn their weapons; the closest ones had not only because they were crushed up against defending Razielim. Many of them had already erected their repulsive shields, glistening domes of blue like the one Kain had been fond of employing. "Stand down. I said, stand down! You, Virgil, get everyone back. Now! Not you, Kotori. Get your kit over here."

The lithe, frost-skinned Ancient had frozen where he'd been arguing with Ferris, expression stunned, shocked, with the suddenly unfolding chaos. At the Nature Guardian's preemptory order, he clutched instinctively at the pouches slung at his hip and belt, and half-staggered forward.

"Yes," Ziliah said to Raziel, as the Ancients began to move as directed. She crouched and gripped the wounded Ancients' shoulder and wrist, peeling back the bloodied fabric to bare the punctures, "but the standard potion is better. Is your shoulder dislocated?" That last was evidently to the injured man. He paled dramatically, but shook his head slowly, uncertainly. Ziliah assisted him to sit up -- though he was still dazed, and had to be propped in a sitting position -- as Raziel stepped back.

"I... a tear in the tendon, perhaps," said Kotori, talons probing delicately at the joint. He opened a vial like the one Cyrus had been offered and attempted to press it into the wounded Ancient's good hand. When it seemed as if the injured man might drop the small bottle, Ziliah wrapped her hand around it and his hand both, assisting him to sip at the fluid. As he did so, Kotori slung a small waterskin around his shoulder, uncapped it, and poured water -- water! -- over the gory injury.

From his place on the ground, Ferris climbed slowly to one knee, head bowed, blood a bright purple splash across his face where his nose had broken, and the skin over his cheekbone and brow had split. His fledgling did not attempt to move, though not because of any damage he'd sustained -- his Sire had shielded him from the worst of the blow. Rather, the young vampire was passing his bound hands over his face... and then licking away the vitae he thus gathered, like a cat washing its whiskers.

Raziel stepped backward, giving Ziliah room to work. Several other Razielim shifted away from the water being used so ... casually, and a silent half-circle of warriors had surrounded Ferris and his fledge. The fledge was not going to be given a third chance at any of the surrounding Ancients, nor any chance to leave before Raziel's verdict upon the attack was given. The smell of the Ancient's blood hung in the air, a powerful allure to the hungry Razielim--none moved, except for those who had fledglings of their own, who dragged them further away to the edge of the glade, where there was less chance of Ferris' mistake being repeated.

Watching as the Ancient's wounds were inspected, then bound with meticulous care, Raziel reached out for Ferris' mind. _Show me what happened._ It was unmistakably an order, not a request--and Ferris immediately opened his memories to Raziel's inspection, sending images of the attempted discipline, the Ancient's interference, his inattention and the fledgling's subsquent escape .... Raziel growled low in his throat as the events played out, and the Razielim gathered nearby shifted uneasily in response.

 _This is the second time you have failed to control your progeny, Ferris._ The Whisper was grim, iron-hard in tone. _Your fledgling's actions may have endangered the Clan's standing. Both of you have failed to heed my command; there will be consequences._ The Ancient should not have interfered with Ferris' handling of his offspring, but that offense was minor in comparison. Ultimately Ferris would bear the blame for his inaction; such was the responsiblity of a sire.

Ferris' face was a stony mask as he bowed his head before his clan lord. The temptations put before his fledgling this day would have defeated three-quarters of all newly risen vampires, and this one was cleverer by half than most... none of which, of course, excused anything at all. Raziel had slain outright neonates for lesser crimes than this -- it was well known he'd not permit for his Razielim lineage the kinds of indulgent hungers that characterized the lowly Dumahim. The fledgling, however, unaware that his fate rested upon the razor's edge, finished cleaning his face and craned his neck for a better view of the murmuring Ancients. He sat up, started to get to his feet, intent.

Ferris' backhand was stunningly hard, spun the fledgling around to topple facefirst into the low, flowering groundcover. Only then did Ferris move, quickly kneeling once more, this time with one armored knee planted firmly in the center of the fledgling's back. Something in the brutal and immediate retribution seemed to prove a warning, for the neonate struggled only briefly before subsiding.

The assaulted Ancient seemed to recover much strength from the vial, or perhaps from the few minutes of rest. "What happened?" he asked, looking around, wincing down at his own set of four punctures, which Kotori was closing expertly with a small, curved needle and a line of specially-wrought thread. As each puncture was drawn back together, the slender Ancient applied an herbal-smelling salve, then a wrap of plain white bandages.

Kotori blushed faintly, but said nothing. Ziliah cocked her head, examining the response. Raziel's exchange with Ferris had been mainly in images, and no particular attempt had meen made to shield it, so she'd witnessed most of the scene. Which didn't mean she understood it. Had the Razielim been exhibiting shocking cruelty, or had he somehow been punishing a crime before it occurred? "That... is a very good question. What did happen?" she said, looking betwixt Ferris and Kotori.

"It appears Kotori interfered whilst Ferris was disciplining his fledge," Raziel said neutrally, looking at her. "Ferris allowed himself to be distracted long enough for the fledgling to escape his bonds, however, and attack another of your people. Thus, the fault is that of the Razielim. Given the nature of this blood-debt, we offer the fledgling's life and Ferris' punishment to you as recompense." Ferris' life was not equitable to such a minor wounding--but the fledgling, not yet a full Razielim, was worth a great deal less.

There was no protest from either Ferris or the other Razielim. Both Sire and fledgling were motionless, waiting.

"I..." Ziliah halted, at a loss for words. Putting aside the consideration that, according to some religious theorists, the Ancients 'belonged' to Raziel, as the emissary of God, every bit as much as everything else in the known span of creation -- disregarding the fact that, under certain circumstances, killing an Ancient could be considered doing him or her a service.... was it possible that Raziel proposed sacrificing one's children to salve a wounded pride?

The Nature Guardian stood, slowly, smoothing her ruffled feathers. She recalled, now, their aborted conversation about 'misunderstandings,' and thought over what Raziel had said. "Disciplining?" she asked at last.

"Fledglings cannot be reasoned with," Raziel answered. "When new-made, they know only the things a beast knows: safety, danger, hunger ... and their Sire. When they transgress, pain is the most immediate and effective means of correction, at least until they gain the capacity for greater understanding." Raziel paused, considering--then reached for Ziliah's mind, Whispering the memories of his own making, millennia ago. The bone-deep cold, the need and the all-encompassing Hunger, the threat and safety both found in the tall shadow of an all-powerful Sire .... "And as you have seen--they are not like other infant creatures," he added. "They are dangerous, both to themselves and others. Thus they are a Sire's responsibility and his burden; he is responsible for their actions, until they have proven they are responsible for their own."

Raziel's cold golden gaze turned to Ferris. "I will not allow the antics of a child, nor the inability of his Sire, to damage the alliance between your people and my clan. His life is yours, if you wish it."

That aching impression of the time after Raziel's rebirth -- the devouring hunger, the cold that seemed to settle into the marrow of the bones, that hollow sense of loss... every Ancient knew those forces. The Nature Guardian's mind seemed to flinch from Raziel's -- in familiarity? In old pain? -- before she faced the sending with a clear effort of will.

Ziliah was silent for long moments after Raziel's pronouncement, perhaps conferring. "A death this day will not further our races' consanguinity, I think. Gabriel, at least, neither demands nor desires it." Her small gesture took in the slowly recovering Ancient, who was looking more alert, though he had not yet chanced standing. "And as for myself... when the curse first struck, every one of us was forced to discover our own paths back to sanity. Most lost their way, as you know." There were so few of them, now -- for every Ancient who now winged the skies, ten more had fallen. "Thus I cannot help but wonder whether this technique, this bridling of the beast, would have done aught to ease the way. And as for a volunteer, to learn these ways..." Ziliah fixed her gaze on Kotori, the Ancient who had so protested what he perceived to be the fledgling's maltreatment. He already had an interest in the manner in which fledglings were treated, after all.

The smaller vampire glanced away. His wings were folded so tightly, the feathers looked like the spills of twin oilslicks.

Raziel inclined his head, accepting her judgement. "Very well." The Ancient Ziliah seemed to have in mind did not seem at all willing to approach the Razielim again; but Ziliah was the Nature Guardian, and Raziel was not about to gainsay her on this matter.

He turned to Ferris. "Rise," Raziel ordered, and the vampire swiftly did so, dragging his fledgling upward with him, talons wrapped firmly about the creature's neck to forestall any struggles. "The Nature Guardian has asked that your fledgling live, and so he shall. You will be charged with teaching the Ancients the ways of the Razielim as it concerns the raising of fledglings, however. This will be in addition to your other duties. A more ... precise punishment for your laxity will be determined later, by your line-Sire. In the time intervening, however ..." Raziel moved forward, his talons lashing outward, almost too fast to be seen, to close about the fledgling's face and jaw. The young vampire whimpered faintly, eyes wide and terrified behind Raziel's grip, aware of how close it was to death. Talon-tips digging into flesh, Raziel snarled to Ferris, "Your offspring has been forgiven twice over. Should this happen again, you will not find me inclined to be merciful. Do you understand?"

Ferris nodded, his face taut with apprehension, clasping a fist over his heart. "I hear and obey, Lord Raziel."

"Very well." Raziel released the fledgling, who promptly twisted in his Sire's grip, attempting to hide behind the older vampire's body.

 _My Lord. Hunting was good -- this area has not been harvested in living memory,_ Zimri's sending interrupted cautiously. _We have retrieved bloodslaves suitable for Tarrant, and... seven hundred twenty two other mortals. Also, two wagons of canvasses and equipment; Hadrian organized the pillage._ Hadrian ofttimes acted as a supply chief; his judgement might therefore be trusted. That first piece of information was of importance because the Neocount's preferred prey -- young, pretty, virgin females -- was perpetually in short supply. And though under desperate circumstances Tarrant would resort to the Razielim's typical prey, he had made his displeasure known in no uncertain terms. _We shall reach you in approximately two hours. Any specific directives?_

Simeon arrived shortly, coming to a halt near Raziel as he viewed the scene: an injured Ancients, a repentant Razielim Sire, a too-large crowd of gawkers, and ground his teeth. His was the responsibility of keeping the Ancients safe. He'd been attending to a problem in the third division -- several of the winged beings had been trailing along too close to a harried fledgling, who had snapped at one -- when word of this disturbance reached him. It was clear, though, why this neonate's control had been strained; the scent of spilled blood was.... "Let us get him under shelter," said Simeon, touching the smaller, attending Ancient's shoulder, which was stiff and tense. Simeon gestured towards one of the completed tents, even as he issued orders to some of the unit commanders around them, directing the Razielim back to their duties.

 _Very good,_ Raziel replied. The arrival of bloodstock was more than welcome; hopefully the supply of fresh blood would lessen the tensions between hungry Razielim and uncomprehending Ancients. _Apportion the slaves as usual between the wounded and the warriors, with some few to serve as a supply in nights to come._ He glanced around at the surrounding Ancients, at least some of which had felt compelled to interfere with a minor and transitory bit of discipline. Perhaps, in the interests of averting further protests ... _Keep the bloodstock separated from the Ancients, if possible, and spread the word to all who partake--the kills are to be quick and clean._ Tarrant's tastes, however, could be a problem. He would have to impress upon the alien Power the necessity for keeping his indulgences ... concealed, at least for the moment.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun had well-risen by the time Zimri and the scouts arrived. The camp had been settled for some time by that point, scouts positioned and most of the rest of the Razielim sheltering under tents or tree-shadows, according to their age and vulnerability. A double-guard had been posted upon the bodies of the changing Razielim--more because Raziel did not trust the Ancients' understanding than he suspected their intentions. And between Simeon and Ferris, the Ancients had been settled safely in their own groupings, according to preference and well away from any of the fledglings or other vulnerable Razielim.

The stirring through the encampment could be felt long before the new arrivals -- the slaves and their handlers -- were spotted. Anticipation was a metallic tension in the air. As they neared, the humans could be smelled before they were seen, the breeze carried the sharp salt tang of sweat and tears to filter through the ancient forest. The guards upon the eastern perimeter of the camp called out greetings to their brethren, who had announced themselves already via Whisper, and then looked on in appreciative consideration as the herd-tithe was led in.

It was a particularly fine catch. Zimri like all Razielim commanders was well-versed in the ways and means of keeping a human village productive and placid – accordingly, nearly all the humans were men. They were also young: from whip-muscled striplings, their frames full grown but not yet filled out, to bulky fieldsmen, their hands and bodies rough from long days with the hoe and plow. Women of bearing age were, for the most part, too valuable to waste, but stripping villages of potential young rebels kept the population acquiescent. All the stock were as vigorous as could be expected, given that no veterinary care had been provided; in the eras of the Empire, all clans tended to their herds’ health, at least to some degree. Eventually, the Razielim would do the same here, improving nutrition and access to clean water, treating wounds and wiping out plagues -- once, of course, every vestige of resistance had been crushed, -- all to ensure the clan’s continued sustenance.

But that would be in the future. These humans were, as the Ancients had said, very much wild, and had been processed accordingly. A thick-twisted length of either leather cord or wire bound each mortal’s hands roughly behind his back. A similar cord around the neck trussed each human to one of many rough-cut saplings, ten humans to each. This pole rested upon each slave’s shoulder – if one stumbled, he would strangle until he could find his feet again – and served to bind the captives in groups together: for while one man might be tempted to run and could, conceivably, even hide himself away, he'd not be able to do so when linked to nine others. Some humans wore the garb of minor tradesmen, but most were in the rags of peasants. As the raid had occurred early in the predawn, some of the humans wore nothing at all, having been rousted thusly from their hovels. They all, however, had been thoroughly gagged. The stock was lead to a central location, then the poles were simply pegged to the ground. On their short leads, the humans were forced either to kneel with head nearly touching the ground or to lay down; most chose the latter.

After the sun rose, many of the Ancients had selected broad branches of trees and now rested, typically napping for short periods of time, before descending to mingle with the Razielim once more. Whether that was normal for their species, or whether they were simply too interested in the Razielim to sleep for long, was difficult to determine. In any case, the arrival of the bloodstock most certainly caught their attention.

"Lord Raziel," a young fledgling, not more than fifty, stood quietly beside his clanlord until Raziel acknowledged him. "Would you select yours, or should we have one sent to the... erm. Command area?" Tarrant had commandeered the tent Raziel normally employed. But with the arrival of the wagons filled with plunder, more oilcloths were available now, and fledglings had rapidly set to erecting at least some manner of screen to enclose an area which Raziel might utilize as he saw fit.

Raziel cast a considering eye upon the humans as they were herded into the glade. "Have one sent, I think ... Zimri has chosen well." He turned away, satisfied that Zimri and the others would handle the disposition of the bloodslaves.

Glancing at Ziliah, he waved a hand at the half-open enclosure. "Would you care to join me? Some sustenance and privacy may benefit all of us."

The Nature Guardian had been gazing at the returning hunting party and the humans thoughtfully, but at the invitation, she inclined her head, smiling. "That seems to be a most sensible suggestion--thank you." If she was weary, it did not show--Raziel had noticed some of the other Ancients dozing in the trees, much like the birds they somewhat resembled.

A minute gesture, and Anani followed, well-accustomed to his Sire's wishes. The fledglings charged with setting up the screens had been placing some newly-aquired mats and goblets for the use of their elders; as Raziel and the others entered, they bowed and left wordlessly.

Ziliah nodded politely at the departing attendants, then glanced around. The site had been well-chosen; the low-hanging boughs of young trees screened most of the top of the open-air tent. The area within was simple, but comfortable enough, with furs laid out. She accepted Raziel's invitation to sit, and settled herself cross-legged onto one of the mats, her long wings splayed out behind her in a manner that appeared awkward, but seemed to cause no discomfort.

"I could not but notice that a... large number of humans have been gathered," she said. "How often do your Razielim prefer... living blood?" Ziliah asked with some hesitation -- she also could not help but notice that the Razielim conducted none of the normal necessary preparations for setting up a bloodfountain, or other artificial source of sustenance.

Outside, a dangerously anticipatory hush had fallen over the encampment, all attentions turned towards the glade. The humans could do little but squirm as the Razielim picked through, dividing up the herd in accordance with custom. Every individual of the second generation was apportioned a share that varied with age, rank, and the number of vampires beneath him – Anani, for example, would be allotted thirty-eight of this catch, to be shared out amongst his ninety-odd surviving descendants. One of his lesser fledglings walked between the rows of humans, pausing now and again to examine one, finally bending to scratch a small mark into the skin of one man’s upper arm, before moving on to the next. More than a hundred other vampires, all representatives of Raziel's offspring, did the same, marking their choices with varying patterns of shallow cuts.

Other fledglings, tasked with minding the slaves, watched attentively. It would fall to them to deliver the correct humans to the proper divisions when meals were requested – as they would be, just as soon as the catch was divided.

The two young females were sectioned out of the common stock, and sent under guard to the central command tent. After a few moments, one of the vampires picking through the bulk of the slaves held up a hand. "This one, I think," he said, snapping one man's bonds and hauling him upright. The human was adult but not yet weathered, strongly and pleasingly built. He was undiseased, free of disfigurement, and had a particularly fine flavor. He should do well enough for Lord Raziel's repast.

Raziel and Anani settled themselves upon the furs--Raziel opposite Ziliah, settling himself carefully clear of her outspread wings, and Anani seating himself behind his Sire's right shoulder, as was customary.

"How often ...?" Raziel echoed, momentarily confused. "Living blood is our sole sustenance. Dead blood is ... rancid, and foul." Then, apprehending her meaning, he said, "Ah--you mean the fonts?" Raziel shook his head regretfully. "The magic of the blood fountains had been long lost by our time. Some few of Ancient origin remained when I was newly-made, but ... the humans would destroy or poison them as soon as they were discovered. Within a few centuries, none were left." The irony of it was that by destroying the fountains, the humans ensured that any remaining vampires would prey upon their brethren. Such wanton destruction, however, was part and parcel of the Sarafan's campaign of extermination, to whom the welfare of the remnant vampires meant less than nothing.

"I do not know if such magics would be possible for our mages to learn," Raziel added. "but I am sure we would be eager to try, if your people are willing to teach."

"Poison? The fountains?" Ziliah arched an eyebrow. "I am no scholar of those magics, but in my understanding, the fountains are manifestations of the very blood of the earth. Poisioning them...." she stopped, frowning. The result might depend upon what specific poisons were used. But nearly anything would, over time, spread through the surrounding layers of stone, tainting nearby crops and springs. "...would have very negative consequences over the long term."

She shook her head. "Of course the magics can be taught. I will contact some of those well-versed now. They can set up a temporary fountain here, as well... ah," Ziliah paused. "Should they seek out the tall one, with the orange markings?" That particular Razielim had been observed to employ several cantrips, while most did not.

A muffled thump and groan announced that a bound human had been delivered. The fledgling would wait patiently outside, with the bloodslave, until summoned.

Ignoring the arrival of his meal, at least for the moment, Raziel nodded. "Oberon is foremost amoung our mages, and a most assiduous scholar. If anyone can learn the ways of Ancient magic, it is he." Despite Raziel's reservations regarding Oberon's single-minded focus on the magical prowess of his offspring, there was no denying his ability. "What does establishing a temporary fountain entail? I had not known such a thing was possible." The few blood fountains that had survived to Raziel's time had been secreted away in elaborate shrines carved into the rock, inscribed with glyphs and warded with protective magics. Yet Ziliah spoke of them as if they were as simple in construction as a shelter from the rain.

Ziliah nodded. "They are constructed whenever a group must remain at a distance from cities and waypoints for a long time. Generally, it is easier to simply carry a few days' supply of vitae in skins -- though as you may have noticed, the quality degrades over time." Fresh from the fonts, artificial vitae was a little better than that from Haven's placeholders. The stuff that the newly-arriving Ancients shared, however... well. Wasn't.

"The ritual requires a stone basin, with which deep contact with the earth is preferred, as well as..." Ziliah explained the process in general terms, but even still, the ritual seemed like a complex one, though manageable for a large group of mages with three or four hours to spare. She answered Raziel's and Anani's questions as well as she was able -- Raziel's firstborn had several -- though it was clear she herself did not know all the particulars. When the limit of her knowledge was exhaused, she drew up a knee, rested a sky-blue wrist on it thoughtfully. "You mentioned before potential misunderstandings. I knew not then what you might have meant; Kotori, I believe, has proved your point most eloquently. Are there other customs amongst your kindred of which we should best be aware?"

Outside, dispatched by the Nature Guardian's suggestion, a number of Ancients converged on the circled encampment of Razielim warlocks, where they explained the ritual they planned to commence. The response, as Raziel had presaged, was enthusiastic.

"Yes--these minor altercations will not be the last, I think," Raziel said soberly. "Though it is hard to predict what might offend; many things that seem only natural are likely strange to you, and vice versa. The fountains are one such example--they do not exist in our time. Thus, our survival depends on the human stock, and we have become quite adept in both the hunt and the cultivation of them." It was an oblique way of mentioning the necessity of bloodslaves, but Raziel was still not certain how much the Ancients would object to Razielim encroachment upon their human herds. "To the Clans, the preservation of the herds is as essential as the claiming of land. One would be useless to us without the other."

The Ancients, from what he had seen, tended to be a great deal more peaceable than their centuries-removed descendants. It could prove--problematic, should they object to the Razielim's methods for pacifying the human populations. Raziel hoped, however, that the creatures that had defeated the Hylden would understand the necessity of survival, if nothing else.

"And, of course, there is the state of change, as you have already found," Raziel added, giving her a wry smile. "Offering to burn and immerse our brethren should be avoided at all costs, I think."

Ziliah nodded. "We understand the need to guide humans, as a shepherd manages his flock," she said. "Kotori's objection was to perceived cruelty, to unnecessary distress -- though I think he will not now be so quick to judge, others might." She thought a moment. "Explanations may ease tensions; none would object to a flock's shearing, nor to culling a herd, because the reasons for it are understood. Are there aspects to your cultivation which exceed this?"

Anani glanced briefly to Raziel at that, uncertain of what portion of the Ancient's pronouncement was simply a poorly-chosen analogy, and what was simply wrong. As much as some might wish it otherwise, humans were like unto no other variety of animal -- a sheep did not seek vendetta if its parent was 'shorn'. A chicken did not catch sight of an omelette and thenceforth refuse to breed; cattle were not capable of mourning a sibling's loss for decades... nor of plotting revenge for that loss.

"As to your kindred who sleep in this state of change, I believe we can comply with your admonition," Ziliah said, smiling a little. All she need do was make it known that the Razielim required a resting period in order to evolve more into God's image. "Is there any way in which we might assist with their care? The need to keep them from fire is, of course, obvious, but you say they cannot be exposed to water while in this state?"

"They cannot be exposed to water at all," Raziel corrected her. "Water is the enemy of all of us, from eldest to youngest, save for myself." He felt more than saw Anani's questioning sidelong glance. It was not his usual habit to expose weaknesses to outsiders; but this was a weakness that would become apparent soon enough. There was little profit in hiding it, and at least the potential to avert future harm. "Ideally, they should not be moved at all, but immured somewhere safe and guarded, proof against sun and water. But the vagaries of fate left us no choice--they would not have lived had we left them behind. As to the humans ..." He tapped a talon thoughtfully in the moss, inscribing idle runes. "Wanton cruelty is not our way ... it is indulgent and impractical." There were those among the Razielim who would still press the edges of Raziel's edicts, even so ... and as time passed, the base corruption of their natures could only spread. Perhaps, with the aid of Ancient magics and his own, a way could be found to purify them before he was forced to begin culling the madness from his own progeny ...

Bringing himself back to the present, Raziel shook his head. "Humans, however, may pose more of a threat than you realize, Ziliah. Their memories are long, and in their superstitious fear they would rid the world of us if they could." As they almost had, in truth.

Ziliah nodded, appearing to take Raziel's revelation of weakness as a matter of course -- though perhaps she did not yet apprehend its degree. "I shall make certain that those preparing quarters for your clan know to avoid open water, then. As for the humans... we understand the danger they can pose," she agreed. "Several cities have been entirely evacuated over the past few decades, when the hazard posed by the humans' crossbows became too great. But the old continent, and certainly the area around the capital, remains quite peaceable. Indeed, we employ humans for many of our designs, and provide them technologies and goods they have not the capability to make for themselves. Even if menkind were capable of holding emnities so long, it would not be in their own interests to do so."

Raziel sighed, running talons through his hair. There seemed to be no way to penetrate the Ancients' blindness where humans were concerned--both Janos and Ziliah seemed incapable of comprehending the threat. "Regardless, my clan knows the ways of humans well." After all, they had all been humans once. "Perhaps we can ensure that your human neighbors remain peaceable."

Anani leaned forward, frowning slightly. "What technologies have you allowed the humans thus far?" Lord Raziel obviously did not trust the Ancients' judgement concerning the temper of the human populace, and Anani was starting to understand why. They truly did not seem to comprehend the dragon that slept within their midst ... "Do you not feed upon them at all, then?"

Ziliah smiled, seeming pleased by Anani's question. "When God first directed our kind here, the humans dwelt within caves almost exclusively, their only art mere daubs of ocre upon the walls and designs on baked clay. We have lessoned them in the cultvation of crops, in the finer principles of forging, smelting, and in the use of the few cantrips they are capable of learning. Some of them can even write, now; a few have been taught to paint or carve."

Her smile faded. "When the curse was first laid upon us, many, many men died to assuage the thirst. The bloodfountains used now are almost always sufficient, but... there are yet times for all of us when the temptation becomes too great, when a human is taken. It is a grim -- and cruel -- reminder of the Hylden's crime."

Anani tilted his head slightly. "Have you learned to feed without killing?" he asked bluntly. Asked of any progeny of Kain, it would have been an insulting query. Such control was among the first lessons learned; it had to be.

But Ziliah looked blank. "Sometimes a human can be saved," she said, "if others of us who are not lost in the thirst are close enough, can respond quickly enough."

Raziel stilled, doing his best to prevent his utter shock from showing upon his face. He feared he had not succeeded; the Ancients had no control over their Hunger? None at all?

Was it incapacity, or lack of guidance that forced them to kill? Perhaps it was the bloodcurse, newly laid upon them, that prevented any semblance of reason when the killing urge arose? "None ... have ever been able to resist the urge to kill?" Raziel asked slowly. "To take only what they require?" Perhaps the Razielim would have more to teach than he had first thought--if indeed the Ancients were capable of learning control instead of abstinence.

Ziliah arched an expressive eyebrow. "We, all of us, withstand that desire daily. Some, who find it particularly difficult, go to great lengths to avoid it -- many do not keep human servants, for example. To fall to the temptation is..." she paused. It was unseemly, barbaric. It was a reminder of the very, very thin line that divided those who had survived from those who had not. But had not the Razielim just collected hundreds of humans? How was that a case of taking only as many as one required? On the other hand, the Razielim surely needed a great number of humans, as they lacked bloodfountains. "...is not adviseable," she finished, hoping not to cause offense.

Raziel glanced at Anani, then turned back to Ziliah. "That was not quite what I meant. It is common among us to take only what we require from the humans we acquire--bloodslaves can often live for years thus, if one is careful not to let the Hunger overtake one's senses. Have your people ever ... fed from each other? Disciplined your Hunger thus?" It was a common practice among the Razielim, when dealing with fledglings too new to be trusted to leave their prey alive. If the herd was low, then only the elders would feed, so as to preserve the life of the bloodslaves, and the potent blood of a Sire would be used to sate the appetite of his progeny. "Or is the bloodcurse so potent that it forces you to kill?" Perhaps it was similar to the madness that so many Ancients had not survived--had they only needed sane, strong elders to provide the guidance they required?

Ziliah could little help glancing briefly aside; the faint blush that rose to her cheeks stained her skin slightly violet. Those first few weeks, many of the Ancients had turned upon one another in their hunger, as violently, mindlessly, and -- oddly -- innocently as Ferris' fledgling had done. They had, of course, been returned to God -- there had been no other choice. Thus feeding from other Ancients carried very negative connotations, save for when circumstances such as severe injury forced the act. And yet... some had experimented, found it pleasurable. Gana maintained in private that it had been extremely so. It was apparent that the Razielim employed the practice with at least some frequency. Ziliah cleared her throat. "I... am not certain how to answer those questions," she said apologetically. But... "You say humans can be drunk from... and survive? Unhurt? Consistantly, or only occaisonally? And how?"

"It must be taught, but yes," Raziel said. "Ferris' fledge--as it is now, it will kill any human it is given. It will be Ferris' task to teach him to control his appetites, as I have taught Anani, and my Sire taught me." He tilted his head. "It is possible your curse is too new, too powerful--but if you wish to try, I am willing to teach." He unbuckled one reinforced bracer, baring the ivory-pale flesh of his wrist even as Ziliah hesitated. "Drink, if you wish, and understand your Hunger. You cannot kill me ... and I would welcome the opportunity to grant you the same pleasure your blood gave me."

Ziliah's gaze fixed on that faintly black-marbled skin, freshly exposed, pale as fresh-fallen snow. She started to shake her head, just a small movement to the side -- how could she? Raziel was the Divine messenger, and anyway it would be... unmannerly. But he had offered. Just freely, simply, as if it were a thing of no particularly weighty consequence. She searched his expression, then Anani's; there was nothing like condemnation there. And... it wouldn't be merely a self-indulgence, would it? Rather, it might be something that she could learn, could teach to improve the lives of those who could not yet make their return... Ziliah bit her lower lip, then licked it. Then crawled closer, her long, trailing flight feathers shushing quietly behind her against the roughness of the mats.

She studied the proffered wrist, reached out to touch -- Raziel's skin was cool and as oddly firm as she recalled -- and withdrew her hand. "What, ah. What do I do?" Ziliah asked.

Reaching over, Raziel drew a talon-tip delicately down the length of his wrist, splitting the armored skin along the vein. Twilight-dark, purplish blood welled up from the wound, perfuming the air with its scent. "You merely drink," he said in answer, eyes upon her face. The minor wound had healed already, leaving the welling blood behind as the only evidence of its existence. "Veins are best--they provide an abundance of blood without the dangers posed by wounds closer to the heart. Simply bite through the skin, and taste what lies beneath." Beside him, Anani stirred, pupils dilating in reaction to the sight and scent of his Sire's blood, but otherwise did not attempt to intervene. Raziel could not help but wonder what his blood would taste like to her--would the Nature Guardian recognize her kinship to the power instilled in him by the elemental fonts ... and by her own spirit, bound for years uncounted to wait for his return?

Ziliah nodded, moved a little closer, and gently closed her talons around Raziel's wrist. After a scarcely perceptable hesitation, she bent to it, rather than lifting it to her mouth. The first brush of her lips was a silken nuzzle, very soft. Her talons tightened, her tongue flicked out to taste. Her low gasp vibrated against Raziel's skin.

That small smear of vitae was a distilled essence of night, the event horizon of an all-consuming darkness, an effervescence like a starfield across her tongue. It tasted like the sudden, anticipatory chill of an eclipse, like the rise of a darksome sun; it tasted like coming home.

Ziliah glanced up, suddenly aware, as the last drops vanished under her tongue, what she'd been doing. But there was naught but a faint sense of amused indulgence in the Divine One's gaze. Steeling herself, Ziliah parted her lips over the place Raziel had cut, and brought the fine points of her fangs to bear.

The bite was a poor one. The force behind it was scarcely sufficient. And within a week of raising, any Razielim fledgling learned to neatly find the junctures between the armored plates that defended an elder's skin -- Ziliah, clearly, had not. Her eyeteeth broke through the top layer of skin, scraped against the subdermal armor, slid painfully to the divot that marked the vein beneath, cutting messy narrow gouges.

Raziel did not flinch from the awkward bite; the pain was a fleeting thing, sharp and transitory. Instead he angled his wrist, aiding her in finding the proper angle of the bite with the ease of long experience. "It is easier with humans, of course," he murmured, his voice serene. "However, the taste is entirely different ..." Another shift, and Ziliah found what she had been seeking, fangs sinking deep between the plates of armor and into the vein, tearing it open with careful greed. Thick blood welled up, sparking over her palate as it touched lips and tongue, the power in it a searing cold, like the shock before the burn of a flame. A fine shiver radiated over Raziel's skin as the feel of her lips against his wrist, the prickle of the Nature Guardian's power rising in response to his own.

The only reply to Raziel's observation was a wordless growl, a snarl as those narrow fledgling's fangs sank deep. The careful nature of the bite evaporated with the first deep taste of dark-potent blood. Ziliah swallowed in gluttonous gulps, tearing open the wound again when it began to heal around her fangs. Her grip tightened spasmotically, powerfully, would certainly have left bone-deep bruises on a human. But her talons lacked edges or serrations, and did Raziel no damage whatsoever. Syrup-thick, black blood seeped from the unpracticed seal of her lips.

Anani glanced to Raziel, tense. He could pry the winged one from her repast if needed, and could probably do so more gently with two hands than Raziel could with one. The jealousy was old and familiar -- that another should have what was rightfully his! -- and thus was no longer so very difficult to overrule. But it still ached.

Thus far, the blood Ziliah had taken was hardly enough to affect Raziel. However, he knew from experience that the taste of an elder's vitae could often spark a blood-frenzy in the young, the potency overwhelming their senses if allowed to feed too long.

 _Ziliah._ Raziel's Whisper was stern, demanding attention. _Ziliah, you need to control your Hunger. Do not let it rule you._ Glancing at Anani, he spoke out loud. "Be ready, if she does not heed me." His eldest stood ready to assist, he knew--and as undignified as it might be to treat the Nature Guardian the way one would a recalcitrant fledgling, it might become necessary if Ziliah could not regain control.

The killing need had been penned for so long, locked behind barriers of steely will and the condemnation of rulers and companions both, for years, decades. Once loosed, it became a raging thing, mad. Compounding that, the sheer potence of Raziel's blood was unutterably intoxicating. But Ziliah possessed an advantage which Razilim fledglings rarely had when they frenzied -- she had fed well, and recently, albeit on the pale, thin vitae produced by the fountains and then preserved for too long. So there was a response, albeit inchoate, to Raziel's sending -- a sense of acknowledgement, of desperate exultation. And also, oddly, of invitation: a desire to share this brutal rapture, as if Ziliah, in this state, was not quite capable of comprehending that the Whisper and the blood were of the same source. That was unusual -- Kainite fledglings were rapacious creatures, certainly not inclined to yield any portion of their spoils.

 _Ziliah._ Raziel tried again, trying to command instead of coerce. _Enough, Ziliah! Release me!_ The taste of her mind was different than any of his progeny, however--bright, sharp, green-tinged with the scent of rain and turned soil, and deep underneath, the hot, slow fires of the earth .... there was no instinctive recognition, no blood-tie on which to enforce his will. She did not flinch, nor even growl in defiance as a fledgling might. It was as if she did not hear him at all, instead tightening her grip upon his arm, her thoughts an incoherent swirl of crimson bliss.

Raziel sighed. "Anani--assist me. I cannot reach her."

"Perhaps your blood is too potent?" Anani suggested, even as he climbed to his feet. The wings--posed an unusual problem, and he hesitated, considering, before carefully stepping over the outflung pinions, to Ziliah's other side. Once there, he crouched behind her, one hand around her arm and his forearm curled about her throat. Ziliah did not seem to notice, focused solely upon her desperate need. "For one unused to living blood, it is likely a most heady draught. Perhaps imbibing human blood would be less ... overwhelming?"

"You may be right--we shall see if she regains her senses after we detach her," Raziel said wryly. Wrapping his free hand around the arm Anani had not already pinned, he shook his head. "I only hope she does not take offense at this mishandling--now, Anani." As one, they both put their formidable strength to work--Anani wrenching Ziliah forcibly backward by the throat, while Raziel broke her desperate grasp upon his still-bleeding arm. Both her fangs and claws left long gashes in his flesh as she snarled and fought to retain her grip, but her strength proved unequal to the task, pitted against that of two Razielim elders as it was.

More than unequal, in point of fact. Anani's arm around Ziliah's throat proved far more effective than anticipated, disrupting suddenly and shockingly the hazed conflugence of pleasure and need as breath was abruptly choked off. She gagged as she was hauled bodily away from the wound, snarling even still, talons clawing ineffectually for Anani's arm, wings shuddering, flailing. Those broad flight surfaces were capable of delivering a buffetting blow, but Raziel was in front of her and Anani was pressed too close beside her -- just as well, for the reflex would have been more likely to damage the Ancient's wings than her assailant.

To Raziel's senses, a... ripple pulsed through the earth, the soil and stone beneath them, a sense of quickening, or tearing. Kain had told him before that Bane, the human Nature Guardian, was wont to summon geysers of clear water from solid stone... Anani felt it, too, or at least he detected the distantly rumbling, grating vibration of rock beneath them, but it was the degree of distress he read in her broadcast mindssense that bid him release the Nature Guardian. A Razielim fledgling should be furious, yes, but not....

The grating faded as Ziliah more fell than sat back, wrapping her own hand around her bruised throat as she coughed.

Anani reflexively steadied the Ancient as she fell backward, supporting her with arms awkwardly curved around those broad wings. "My apologies, my lady," he said, somewhat shamefaced. "I had not realized that you were so ... fragile." Who would have thought that the Ancients still needed to breathe? It seemed such a ... human trait.

Raziel frowned, leaning forward. He had known of the relative softness of Ziliah's flesh, of course, but he had not even thought of what other traits she might still share with the living. "Are you whole? Can you speak?" If Anani had crushed her throat unknowingly ... he reached out, wishing to check for damage, but the sight of his own talons made him pull back. What other wounds might he inflict, just with an unchancy touch?

The Ancient suffered a new bout of coughing, and Anani tensed -- Raziel was going to be... extremely unhappy if the first inadverdant Ancient death occurred at Anani's hand, that was for damned sure! -- until he realized that she was not choking. She was laughing. Roughly, hoarsely, but laughing. Possibly with delight. He eyed her suspiciously.

"I... That was... you are..." Ziliah's voice was rough, as if weathered, but the fractured nature of her sentences seemed not to have much to do with the state of her throat. Her eyes focused on Raziel's upraised talons -- and the blood still smeared across his wrist -- and she attempted to move closer... only to be curtailed by Anani's supportive grasp. Ziliah growled a little, then noticed where a few drops of near-black vitae had fallen or spattered across Anani's shoulder. She bent her head and, unabashedly, licked them away.

Raziel's worry dimmed, and a smile curved the edges of his mouth as he reached out and stroked his unbloodied talons through her feathers, smoothing them as she had taught him. "Are we to assume that it meets with your approval, then?" he asked, as if he were a wine-merchant. Anani shifted as Ziliah lapped at his skin, shivering a bit. To be in close quarters with two vampires of such power, their auras flaring with emotion and hunger, was both exhilarating and intimidating. The only time he had ever felt thus was when he had once had the ill-luck to be trapped in an audience with both Raziel and Kain himself ... and when it was done, he counted himself very fortunate to have escaped unscathed.

After a moment's consideration, Anani relaxed his grip by slow degrees, ready to tighten it again at any sudden move. The downy feathered surface of her wings rubbed at his arms and chest, and he could feel the heat of her skin beneath it. It was a most odd sensation ... but not an unpleasant one.

The wing under Raziel's hand spread with his touch, a reflexive arching of enjoyment that exposed the whispier undercoats. Feather grooming between Ancients was, apparently, very frequent -- those that had joined the Razielim spent at least as much time engaged in that pursuit as they spent sleeping. Clearly, they found it relaxing, calming, judging by Ziliah's response.

But she still eyed Raziel's bloodied arm.

"Yes," Ziliah said, still too stunned to effort a more clever response in what was, after all, at least her second language. Once the vitae on Anani's skin was gone, she pressed her mouth and nose there, inhaling -- there was more just under the surface, so much like unto Raziel's... but the reservations against biting were deep, and long-engrained, despite this latest experience. And there was still blood on her mouth, from where she'd fed so messily. The Naure Guardian lifted a hand, swiping at the smears, and then licking them from the back of her hand... and then realized she was mirroring the actions of the young Razielim fledgling almost exactly. She blinked, dug her talons through the mat and the moss beneath. "I... my apologies...."

"No need--none here will blame you for your hunger. It may be that I have miscalculated--the blood of an elder can easily nullify all reason. Anani has suggested that it might have been easier had you started with blood less potent," Raziel said easily. He continued his gentle strokes, carefully running the tips of his talons down the mussed pinfeathers and into the heavier primaries. "They have a human readied outside, if you wish. Or, if you think a smaller taste might be easier to control ..." He lifted his bloodied wrist in illustration, but did not bring it into her reach ... yet.

Anani, for his part, remained silent. It was not his place to question his Sire, no matter how much he misliked the idea of allowing the Ancient the opportunity to savage Raziel once again. Instead he followed Raziel's example, and cautiously began stroking the nearest wing-surface with his free hand, doing his best to smooth instead of muss the ebony feathers.

Ziliah considered this, and after a moment, shook her head. "I have deaths enough already on my conscience," she said. She would not waste one of God's creations -- even such a minor one -- without due cause. If Raziel had been human, the injury she'd inflicted would surely have proved fatal, or nearly so, even with Anani's intervention. She glanced to Raziel's firstborn in gratitude, and spread the wing on his side a little wider, politely ignoring the disarray he was making of her feather barbs. There was no permanent harm done; she'd simply sit with one of the others, later. But without his assistance, however abrupt, she would surely have damaged Raziel far worse. The Divine Benefactor seemed, at the moment, unconcerned about either the bloodloss or the wound -- which, in point of fact, seemed to have healed almost entirely, though it was difficult to tell under the mess she'd caused. "Are you certain you are well?" she asked. "I have bandages, if..."

Raziel shook his head. "It is healed already--there is no cause for worry." Lifting his wrist, he licked away part of the drying blood, then showed her the whole, unmarred skin beneath, without so much as a line or scar to show where the wounds had once been. "It is remarkable to me that your people do not have the same capacity for healing," he admitted. "I had always assumed that the Ancients would be more akin to the vampires of the Empire, but there seem to be more differences than even I had realized." His brief encounters with Vorador and Janos had brought home how extraordinary the Ancients had been--but they could not have prepared him for the sight of hot-blooded, breathing vampires more akin to the living than the undead.

A moment's thought, and there was the shifting of movement from outside the tent. The waiting fledgling brought in the young human, expertly forcing the man downward to his knees and retying the bonds upon his feet as the man tried to kick out at his captors. Despite the futility of the exercise, the man still struggled; the perfume of his sweat and the desperate thrumming of his heart was rich, delectable. Raziel's eyes narrowed as he took in his prey with a certain amount of satisfaction. Not perfect, perhaps--wild humans often had meager diets and more diseases than their domesticated kin--but regardless, this one had been chosen well.

The mortal's eyes widened at the sight of an Ancient, here apparently without coercion -- indeed, the creature was being attended to by others of his alien captors. His mouth, bound wide, tightened in a snarl. Longstanding hatred suffused his scent. How predictable that the winged marauders would be in league with these... these things!

Outside, other humans were being delivered to what, for some, would be their final destinations. Whenever a meal was summoned, a fledgling in charge of the stock located a previously marked human, untied him, and hauled him sobbing upright and then off towards one encircled encampment.

Feeding was not considered a particularly traumatic experience, though the captives might have been surprised to hear it. In most cases, the mortal was dragged to kneel under the cover of a tent. The twin punctures were usually carved by an elder, who drank lightly, followed by one or two younger vampires who knew better than to gnaw at or savage the wound. A thin smear of clotting agent was applied to the injury if necessary, and then the human was led – now staggering and usually quiescent – back to the slavelines. Tied with the others, the slave’s gag would be removed and a fledgling would provide water, dipped from a bucket with a long-handled ladle. That fledgling also carried at his belt a many-tasseled whip, though as yet, he'd not been forced to employ it. It seemed these humans had little interest in attempting to spit the water back at their captors, as was common with other wild-collected stock. Fed from with caution, given sufficient pillaged food stuffs and water, a human could remain productive for three or five days before expiring.

Not all the bloodstock, of course, was returned alive. Perhaps a third of those selected were kept longer, and fledglings were eventually summoned to carry the resultant corpses to the downwind edge of the camp. The bodies were not, however, wasted. Razielim warlocks collected certain spell components, and employed mageries to extract the last remaining drops of vitae. This they condensed for later use, sealing the thick fluid into vials wrapped in preserving spells. In more settled times and places, the remaining portions of the bodies would be processed for other purposes -- the hides might be used for fine leather, the flesh for animal feed. Now, however, fledglings assigned that unenviable task hauled the refuse to piles far distant from the camp and from water sources. Wild scavengers gathered thickly there; once the Razielim departed, they'd dispose of the remains within days.

Ziliah's gaze followed the bound human, her expression conflicted. "I... no. We knew already that we do not recover from injuries so swiftly as you, albeit far moreso than the animals native to this world. But your recovery is a gift of God, indeed. Does it extend to all your kindred? It seems that some, at least, bear wounds for some time?" Others were scarred; some, like Cyrus, most terribly, according to Bashemath.

The human's hate was almost palpable--yet Ziliah seemed oblivious to it. There was the possibility that the man's enmity was directed solely upon the Razielim, but somehow Raziel did not think humans were quite that discriminating.

"The wounds of an elder will heal faster than the wounds of a fledgling, but yes--all share the same ability." Raziel's expression darkened slightly. "Severe wounds, however, can take a great deal of time. Crushed bone, or amputated or seared flesh .... one's resources are severely taxed in regenerating such things. And certain magics can twist wounds further, bind them against healing." Magics like the Hylden had employed, and the Sarafan. And there were other wounds from which no creature would heal, save Raziel himself; those caused by sunlight, or water, or the removal of the head. However he was not quite fool enough to mention such things in front of a listening human, no matter how unlikely that human was to survive past the night.

"Anani." His firstborn looked inquiringly at him, and Raziel waved a hand. "Partake--you shall have first blood this night." It was not a usual boon, but Anani had been his strong right hand all through their long journey, stalwart and calm. He was long overdue for recognition, and Raziel's hunger could wait.

Anani nodded. "My Lord," he said, abandoning the feathers he'd been attempting to smooth back into place. Once the fine black barbs became unzipped, there seemed no earthly way to force them to regain what he assumed to be their natural form. All efforts towards that purpose simply resulted in more frayed feathers -- and small pieces thereof, whenever the serrated edges of his talons brushed one wrongly. Which then made the surrounding feathers look disordered. He'd been tempted to simply remove the worst of them, since they were evidently dysfunctional, but was aware that might have been considered... unmannerly.

This, however... he knew how to do. And knew it well. Anani pushed himself smoothly to his feet, stalked to the mortal, stepped over the bound feet when the man attempted again to kick. He tangled a hand in the man's hair, dragged him effortlessly to a sitting position, and went to one knee just behind. Taking a subtle cue from Raziel, he understood this act to be as much demonstration as reward, though he prized the privilege no less highly. Under normal circumstances, sharing a meal thusly was a potent affirmation of the bond between Sire and spawn -- but with an outsider present... Anani reigned in his irritation tightly. One hand on the man's shoulder, the other in his hair, he tilted the mortal's head, ensuring that Ziliah had an unobstructed view. He laid his mouth upon skin, and took his time finding the vein he wanted -- not the thick carotid, but rather a smaller channel. He set the points of his eyeteeth with precision, and then bit.

The mortal's cry was thickly muffled. As he attempted to writhe away, Anani simply tightened his grip, talons as inescapable as forge-hardened manacles.

The Nature Guardian swallowed thickly, her pupils dilating.

Anani drank deep--and Raziel watched with every evidence of pleasure, golden eyes gleaming in the dim light that filtered through the trees. The human's struggles faded as his strength was sapped, and Raziel could feel the pleasure Anani took in his repast, a subtle thrum of greed and satiation. Anani's momentary flashes of jealousy had not escaped Raziel's notice, but he was minded to let them pass, at least for the moment. There would be time enough to address his firstborn's jealousies--later.

Shifting slightly closer, Raziel continued drawing his talons in calming strokes over Ziliah's wings. He could feel the minute shivers of her skin as she fought the instinct to take the prey before her. Her tongue slipped out to wet dark lips, and he laid one palm carefully upon the back of her neck, cupping it in reassurance and reminder. "Anani is mindful of his prey," Raziel said, his voice dark and low. "The neck is best, but also vulnerable to a killing bite--he must choose his spot carefully. Their heart and their scent will both tell him when the human begins to weaken ... when he must withdraw, or take the kill."

Anani swallowed slowly, content to let the vitae flow of its own, without calling it forth. It was worth taking time to enjoy -- clearly of wild origins, with a pleasant gamy muskiness, a reminder of the winter the mortal had recently weathered. But the human had been eating of the new foods of spring, too -- dark green vegetation, tubers sweet with frost, gold-centered eggs plundered from the nest, the young growing tips of small-leafed shoots.

"I... see," Ziliah whispered, her talons flexing in the moss. Under Raziel's hand, her wing trembled, fine little muscular tremorings.

No matter the care Anani took, however, after a time the mortal's heartbeat began to speed, endeavoring to maintain pressure. The prey sagged in his grasp, momentarily quiescent. _Master. Would you drink now?_ he Whispered, smoothly sliding the tips of his eyeteeth free of the wounds and pressing his tongue over the seeping punctures, stemming the flow.

 _I think I shall._ With a last, lingering stroke down Ziliah's back, Raziel shifted, moving smoothly over to Anani's side. The younger vampire released his bite, lifting his head, and Raziel immediately bent down to seal his own mouth over the wound. Biting into the same spot, he savored the taste of the man's blood, hot and living, with a sweet, pure tang he had never tasted before--not in the Nosgoth of his time, at least. Raziel's eyes slitted shut in pleasure as he drank, one slow mouthful after the next, letting it saturate his senses until he could hear the first slight stuttering of the mortal's heart.

Regretfully, he withdrew, lifting his head and motioning the attending fledgling forward. The man slumped forward in his bonds, unconscious, skin pale--but alive. Which was, of course, entirely the point.

The younger vampire expertly applied wadded bandages to the wound, staunching the flow of blood. Turning away from his prey, Raziel reached out to Anani, curving talons possessively over those strong shoulders. "Shall we allow Ziliah a taste of living blood as well as undead?" he said, almost purring the words, his face intent.

The Ancient watched as the swooning human's wounds were bound quickly, with the familiarity of long and repeated practice. Her lips were parted, dark where she had bitten them. She had seemed not to register Raziel's departure from her side, and started a little when he spoke. She clenched her teeth tight. No matter how portentous the Divine One's demonstration -- if only her brethren could learn such dominion over their own curse-warped natures! -- the human was clearly very much weakened. "I cannot..." How did they mean for her to.... but then the young Razielim unbound the mortal's legs, dragged him upright, and began to leave, as much carrying the man as permitting him to walk. She looked to the elder Razielim in relief and regret, both.

Anani ducked his head slightly, brushing his prickly-short, winter-gold hair against Raziel's shoulder, understanding what his Sire meant. He hesitated just a bare moment, just long enough to betray his disapprobation to an alert observer. He was accustomed to sharing his Lord's attentions with other Razielim -- that was right, and the proper order of things. But... "Not that," he murmured, fixing pale eyes on the winged one. As slow and lithe as a torpid snake in spring, Anani unwound himself from Raziel's clasp. "This," he whispered, reaching out to cup the Guardian's jawline with his edged hand. Then he touched his bloodied lips to hers -- lightly, gently, almost chastely.

Her mouth was sweet, its flavor touched with the tang of his Sire's blood, her lips warm and slightly swollen from where she had bitten them, all unknowing. It was ... strange, almost alien, nothing like the cool comfort of Raziel's touch, or the ephemeral too-soft heat of a human's lips. He did not press further, but let his lips rest upon hers for a long moment, then lifted his head and watched her curiously. Ziliah seemed dazed, licking her lips almost instinctively; but the Hunger was still there, and he had not forgotten the power that had vibrated the earth beneath them.

Anani had never truly thought of what kissing an Ancient might be like; it was proving to be completely unlike anything he might have guessed.

With the human now gone, Raziel moved into the newly-open space, behind Anani. Once the kiss was broken, he leaned forward, wrapping hands over his firstborn's narrow, muscled hips and laying a sharp-edged kiss upon the nape of his neck. Again. Taloned fingers tightened possessively, allowing no retreat.

Anani, deep in contemplation, had forgotten -- how could he have forgotten? -- how silently Raziel could move. The sudden tension of talons upon his hips made him catch his breath, a reflexive gasp he'd thought long-mastered. He dropped his hand from the Ancient's warm skin and slid it instead over his Lord's, slipping his own slightly narrower talons betwixt Raziel's. He applied just the slightest pressure, a mute entreaty that those claws might slide down, press against more sensitive places.... Raziel's hands moved not at all.

The peremptory order stiffened his back, even as Anani tilted his hips into that iron grip. He caught himself beginning to bare fangs -- t'wasnt the winged woman's mouth he wanted! But his Lord's command was his dictate, always had been. With a throttled growl, he pressed forward to obey.

The Ancient, this time, was far from passive. Ziliah met him, leaning into it, tongue swiping across his lips and then between them, forcing open his mouth. Voicing a soft snarl of pure want, she ate there, their fangs clicking, her tongue slicking deep, chasing that vanishing taste.

Anani met that sudden deep kiss with a harder one of his own, his frustration and jealousy sublimated into a fierce slanting of his lips upon hers. Ziliah nicked her tongue upon one fang, caught by her own need, and Anani growled low in his throat as droplets of blood spilled into the kiss, sparking with the power drawn from every living thing in Nosgoth. Suddenly kissing an Ancient did not seem so strange--the power might not be that of a Razielim, but there was something almost ... familiar in it. Urged forward by Raziel, his cupping hand moving down the line of her neck, to her shoulder--then slipping beneath her arm to pull her closer. Her breasts were soft against his chest, the rapid pounding of her heart a drumming siren's call against his skin.

 _Yes ..._ Raziel Whispered in pleasure, nuzzling against the soft pale hair at Anani's nape, his gaze glittering and hot. His wings unfurled, driven by his own slow-stoked desire, unfolding forward as if to enclose both of them into his embrace. Lower, he rubbed his hips against the taut swell of his eldest's rear, goading Anani forward with each subtle thrust.

The convergence, that bare thread of similarity, crawled just at the edge of consciousness, escaping Anani's grasp whensoever he tried to reach for it, nagging at the corners of his mind when he did not. And yet he could spare it little attention, for the taste... was like loam, like growth, like holding the hunt in his mouth. It called forth a fierce answer. Growling, the serrations of his talons catching upon silk and, despite the fabric's unnatural resillence, tearing it in places, Anani tried to pull the Guardian closer still. His talons clutched at her back, and encountered thickly layered feathers. One, shorn against those razored edges, floated down, a falling fragment of night.

Ziliah seemed not to notice the loss, nor the prickling against her tongue. Unaware of the tableau she helped pose for Raziel's delectation -- vivid blue upon Anani's winter gold, black upon high-platinum white, her red blood bright at the corner of Anani's mouth, she clawed ineffectually at Anani's sides. He moved, so much as he was permitted, with the rhythm of Raziel's teasing thrusts -- the shift changed the angle of the kiss yet again, and Ziliah freed a hand, tangled her claws in his hair -- just as she'd seen him do with the human. Gasping, she broke the kiss... and under the mantled shadow of Raziel's dappled wings, ducked her head to Anani's throat.

Her fangs were short and sharp, like a fledgling's, and it was only by chance that her first greedy bite did not penetrate. Unable to pierce the thickness of Anani's skin, she gave a growl of frustration, feathers fluffing upward, and bit again. This time, her fangs sank through the softer skin beneath the jaw, between plates of armor and into the flesh beneath, freeing the dark, potent blood from its channels. The flavor of Anani's blood was very different from that of his Sire--while potent, laced with the power of a Razielim elder, it nonetheless lacked the edge, that touch of the void, of ice and lightning that suffused every drop of Raziel's reborn self.

Anani sucked in a breath at that impertinent bite, his growl rumbling upward from his chest. This creature dared ...! But there was no sense of shame or gloating victory in the touch of her mind against his, only an all-encompassing pleasure, a burgeoning sense of satiation. He tried to retreat, to break her grip, only to find Raziel an immovable wall, barring his movement. His Sire's talons, dextrous and lethal, slipped downward, tugging at the laces of his breeches, loosing them with aching slowness. "Master ..." he murmured, caught between the Ancient and his Lord. Raziel's lips curved against his neck.

"I would not have thought you to be so prudish, my Anani ..."

Anani squirmed, as if doing so might throw off the young creature that so audaciously clung to his throat. "I... but...!" His Sire knew full well whyfor his protest! The Ancient was clearly not more than forty years reborn, and anyway was not even a Razielim, and... thought fractured further each time Raziel tugged the leather thong free of an eyelet. He shuddered as Raziel's mouth opened against the skin on the other side of his throat, a kiss edged teasingly sharp with the careful press of fangs. Gasping, he ground his hips back against Raziel's in mute entreaty, even as he tangled his talons in Ziliah's hair. Just in case.

The Nature Guardian snarled, so much as she was able, at Anani's apparent efforts to escape or interfere. The Razielim was... was different, in nigh undefineable ways: rich and potent, yes, but also somehow smoky, like iron in a sheath of rust, like dissolution. And yet so sweet.... even as she fed, however, the haze of need began to clear by infinitesimal degree, each swallow seemed to recall a hint of lucidity, of control.

Raziel's membranous wings brushed against Ziliah's outflung feathered ones, the soft brush of her ebony feathers a sensual tease against the sensitive skin. The lacings of Anani's breeches finally gave way--but rather than part the confining cloth, Raziel pressed the heel of his hand against his firstborn's rising eraction, rubbing the leather teasingly against Anani's erect cock. Insulted or otherwise, Anani would not move until Raziel gave him leave. Which left a great deal of opportunity to enjoy them both, even as they taught Ziliah the ways of the Razielim ... Another slow kiss, a teasing lick--and then Raziel bit down upon the hard-muscled surface of one shoulder, sinking fangs deep. He released the bite immediately, laving it as it healed, leaving only the memory of the short, sharp pain to sensitize the nerves.

Gasping in reaction, Anani pressed hard against Raziel's muscled frame, heedless of the Ancient's growls. Every part of him wanted more--wanted it to be Raziel's fangs upon his throat, drinking deep, Raziel's hands about his cock, stroking his sides, sheltered beneath those wings until the world fell away. The Ancient, however, was a palpable distraction, a heady combination of heat and living blood that made him almost feel as if he were betraying his Sire by his inattention.

At that single swift bite against his shoulder, Anani's head fell back, baring the whole of his throat to Raziel's mouth. "S-sire, Please..." the murmured plea escaped him at the near-painful pressure against his groin. He could do little but grind back against his master; at last he released Ziliah's hair, reached back with talons undercurved, stroking lightly against Raziel's cheek, his jaw, in trembling entreaty.

The movements also eased the Ancient's access, and she purred, pleased at the apparent submission. She eased closer, rising up a little, and in her eagerness, pressed herself up against the back of Raziel's hand. A few more swallows, and Ziliah abruptly released her bite. She blinked, looked up, clearly dazed -- both by the manifest power entwined in her repast and by an utterly unaccustomed sense of... repletion.

Raziel gave a purring growl, marking Anani's neck with tiny, sharp bites, just enough to break the skin, the tiny wounds blossoming and disappearing before his eyes. Anani's plea was heartfelt, persuasive ... but Raziel was not yet ready to end his game. He shifted his grip, gentling it, pressing aside the leather until the calloused skin of his palm was cradling Anani's erect flesh with expert care. Kneading it, he shifted his hand so that the knuckles pressed into Ziliah's soft folds at the same time, and watched in pleasure as she gasped, shivering at the intimate touch.

His own cock was aching, confined behind leather still and pressed hard against Anani's taut rear. It was a tease for himself as well as Anani, to see how long he could last before he took what his firstborn was so wantonly offering ...

"Ah!" Anani gasped, as that corrugated palm pressed now against him directly. Every move, every tiny shift, was a hell of ecstasy, driving him against that pressure. The last six months had been brutal for all the Razielim, and though moments of peace had been snatched from combat, there never had been time for this extended pleasure, this kind of sweet torment. A small move drove the aching head of his cock against Raziel's palm, and he cried out. It abruptly did not matter that the Ancient was just here, that she was watching them both, that she was alien, and an outsider. That she was a woman. Anani could not bite the gasped words back: "Master, oh! S-sire, please fuck me. Right here, just like this. N-need it, you hard in me, all of it, don't... don't want anything, please don't wait, just give it to me..." his talons went to his own hips, trembling as the edges caught, as if he would rend the leather from himself.

Ziliah's gaze sharpened. She might not understand Anani's tongue, but his meaning was clear. She shuddered at Raziel's touch through the silk of her loose robe. A slow smile crossed her lips, and she ground a little harder, deliberately now, against Raziel's hand, even as she bent her head to lap away the evidence of her bite. In the thick moss around them, something... quickened, grew sharp with new power. The scent of loam and sweet earth and blooming things grew marginally stronger. From around the furs, from between the reed slats of the woven mats, a hint of bright new growth appeared.

Raziel growled softly, the low rumble almost like a purr as it came from his chest. Anani's pleas were sweet, as was the taste and scent of his desperation. Stroking over the other vampire's chest, and downward, he finally stripped the leather down from Anani's hips, freeing that erect flesh. Clasping it carefully in his palm, he stroked Anani's engorged cock, making sure as he did so that the head rubbed against the softness of Ziliah's belly with each shift and touch. Anani keened, and the smile that curved Raziel's lips was dark and intent.

"Surely you would not be so impolite as to neglect our guest ...?" he murmured, his breath hot upon Anani's neck. "Or do you wish to perform for her delectation? Allow her to watch, and even touch, as I claim you once again?"

Anani's breath shuddered as he writhed within the limits of Raziel's grasp, unheeding of the fine dark lines scored over his hips, as the skin rubbed against his Lord's talons. "I..." Such cruelty, to force him to assemble a cogent thought, a sentence, under circumstance such as this! But Raziel's words caught at his fragmented attention -- "Take me -- yess... please, Master. I..."

A small-leafed tendril brushed the back of Raziel's wrist, dry and cool and delicate. And then another, questing up from the thick pad of moss beneath them, growing -- for surely it was growing? -- at many times any natural speed. The blunt tip probed the air blindly, the buds of soft young leaves curled tight. Then it found the Anani's breeches, bunched around his hips, and eased them down further. The tendril thickened, applying more force as it tugged the leather away from the smooth curve of Anani's ass. And now others began to rise up, as delicately seeking as if they floated underwater.

Raziel glanced downward at the light touch upon his skin--and his eyes widened as he took in the green tendril that grew and moved both with unnatural speed. He paused, looking to Ziliah. She had a sated, yet anticipatory look upon her face, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure as the tendrils pushed their way upward, around Anani, and Raziel found his own desire surging at new thoughts of what a Nature Guardian could do with them.

With one of the remnant coherent pieces of thought left to him, Raziel eased away from Anani for a moment, reaching downward to trace the sigils of a silencing ward upon the moss. A moment of concentration, and then the magic flashed outward, cascading through all of them as it settled upon the walls of their makeshift shelter. With the canvas partially open to the sky, it would not be as complete a ward as it normally was--but it should be enough to keep their pleasure from disturbing the rest of the camp. That task complete, he turned his attention to Anani, who was now writhing slowly under the assault of several tendrils as well as his own hands. His leather breeches were completely undone, hanging only barely upon the low curve of his hips, and Raziel inserted the tips of his talons over the hem, next to the twining vine, and tugged them downward. Anani's cock swelled upward, hard and eager, the pale flesh slightly darker than the rest of his body. It did not stay unattended for long--a vine covered in tiny young leaves immediately quested upward, brushing against the tip--and when Anani moaned and jerked forward, wound itself around the length of his cock, shifting and tightening with each small movement of the vampire's hips.

Who could have known that the magic bestowed by the Pillar of Nature could have such carnal applications? Raziel watched the living green of the vines wind about Anani's erect flesh, questing over the smooth swell of his firstborn's ass, and found himself dimly amused underneath the arousal. Kain would have been most annoyed to find them thus, he knew--if only because as the Balance Guardian, his own innate magic would not have lent itself to such sweet torments.

The mossy strand wove close around Anani's straining cock, the faint roughness of tiny leaves brushing, clinging to achingly delicate skin. New flushes of energy brought growth in soft surges. They teased at the sensitive flare around the head of Anani's cock, easing the shielding skin back. The blunt, pale-green tip of one small tendril enwrapped the glans, trailing its soft-rolled leaves over that slick flesh, before finding the weeping slit. It paused there a long moment... and then budded, and blossomed, a carmine flower bright against pale skin, velvet petals splaying suddenly over soft skin so suddenly, Anani's body seized, jolted.

Kain might -- might -- even have been jealous.

The nature guardian sat back a little, gaze lingering on the evidence of the ecstasy her playthings wrought. Respondant to her focus, the thin tendrils thickened, their growth intensified, they no longer sought blindly, but rather with singleminded vegetative focus. Tender tips found the sinew stitchings that held Anani's breeches together, and there tensed. A strand broke, and then the tendrils were unpicking the seam as dexterously as a dozen tiny fingers. Anani's breeches came apart, into two pieces, falling to bunch around each thigh, leaving him entirely exposed and...accessable before Raziel. More vines wound the hard planes of his ass, sought out the cleft between.

Conscious -- though only barely, beyond the all-consuming energy of Raziel's Presence and the rising tide of pleasure -- that he was rapidly losing control of the situation, Anani growled, talons flexing. He grasped at the Nature Guardian, dragged her tight to him, capturing her mouth in a hard kiss. His talons shredded through the enchanted silk she wore, tearing it to ribbons and drawing shallow scrapes over her skin.

Raziel pressed himself against Anani's back, feeling hard muscles shift and flex even as he gave a low growl of warning. _Take care, Anani. I do not wish her harmed._ Neither Ziliah's azure skin nor her wings were armored against the kind of strength that Anani possessed--it would be far too easy for the elder Razielim to grievously wound her in the heat of his desire. Normally his eldest would not have even needed the warning; but faced with both the power of the Guardian of Nature and his Sire, Raziel could well understand how even Anani could be ... overwhelmed.

A tendril snaked downward in the narrow space between their bodies, probing delicately at the shadowed cleft of Anani's ass. The elder Razielim shuddered in reaction, bucking slightly, and that was all the invitation needed; the vine pushed inward, slow and inexorable. The first slender shoot penetrated Anani's body, thickening visibly even as it did so. Other, less aggressive tendrils were winding their way up Raziel's legs, growing upward with unnatural speed as he growled again, biting at the line of Anani's back.

Anani snarled at the command, doubly so when the next seeking vine found the tight-clenched ring of his ass, and prized its way in beside the first. Each vine was less thick than a human's fingers, but the way they twisted inside him was nothing like anything he'd felt; they were boneless and jointless, infinitely flexible, and so damned long.... He could feel every inch of them, parting him deeply and then more, constantly moving, working at the tender little ring of muscle. The pair of vines writhed against the firm little node of nerve endings inside him, and he gasped, jolted. A third tendril took that as an invitation to join its brethern.

The third tendril glistened wetly, like a young blade of grass wet with dew, or the nectar-coated stamen of a flower. As it pressed bluntly between the other two, Anani gasped hard, a half-choked hiss. _Master!_ The Whisper was plea, not protest. The slick vine forced deeper. _I... Master, please!_

Though Ziliah could not have known, this was amongst the crueler games a sire might play. Kain had been particularly fond of it. Water -- heavily salted, so that it ached and stung but did not burn -- could be applied to a fledgling's tenderest places. The neonate learned quickly enough that relief came only when they begged for it, when their Master came within them, cock well-slicked with oil to protect against the moisture.

Twisting, helplessly jerking against both pain and a frustrated instinct to tear, to rend, Anani dragged his captive Ancient up, against his body. She purred in surprise, soft-taloned hands steadying herself against his shoulders, feathers spreading against Raziel's mantled wings, for balance. Then she gasped as Anani pressed the tip of his cock between her thighs, through the tatters of her robes.

From behind, Raziel growled in frustrated arousal, his cock hard and aching behind the confines of his breeches. Anani's pleas, his agonized pleasure were impossible to ignore, and Raziel found himself suddenly jealous of the vines that had taken such thorough possession of his firstborn. Reaching downward, he undid the ties of his breeches, snapping some in his haste, and groaning in pleasure as his erection was released from its confinement to nuzzle against the smooth swell of Anani's ass.

His hand moved, grasping the slickened vine, withdrawing it slowly. Anani cried out hoarsely as the slickness seared his soft flesh, then again as he felt the blunt head of Raziel's cock, pushing at his entrance. _Mine,_ came Raziel's whisper, the touch of his mind dark and satisfied. _My clever Anani ..._ Lubricated only by scanty precome, Raziel did not wait. He pushed himself forward, forcing his cock past Anani's stretched hole, feeling the remaining vines twine and writhe against his aching flesh as he pushed his way inward between them, forcing Anani's body open even further.

Anani cried out, as much an exhultant sounding as much as one of pain, as that heavy blunt tip found his stretched opening, pressed there, spread him wide. The ring of muscle opened reluctantly, taking it, the sudden halting-slick slide and then the false hint of relief as the thicker head sank fully in. But nothing about this was familliar, for those two other lengths were not withdrawn, and even still they writhed inside, igniting blind bolts of pleasure, while their thicknesses alongside Raziel's was torturous.

As Raziel pushed in, claiming more deeply that familliar, silken-clasping body, the tendrils reacted to his presence. Something touched the tip of him, a slow, exploring slide, then enwrapped him. The vine was agile as a tongue, touching, stroking, tapping -- every movement also teasing at Anani's passage.

The soft-leaved tendrils around his cock squeezed firmly, perhaps in warning, and it was simply too much. Anani threw back his head with a strangled groan, caught utterly upon the brink. Bucking backwards into his Sire's possession, he was incapable of thought, blind with sensation. He seemed scarce to notice as the Nature Guardian wriggled, attempting to slip free of his grasp, though his talons tightened reflexively upon her.

She breathed heavily, and when her eyes locked on Raziel's, her pupils were were dilated wide. "I want -- I want his mouth," she panted, sky-blue talons fisting in the winter gold of Anani's hair.

Almost lost in the sensations thrust upon him by the clasp of Anani's flesh, the slow writhing of the vines around his cock, rippling between them, Raziel almost did not understand the meaning of her request. Hazed golden eyes gazed upon her face uncomprehendingly, then with an effort of will, he collected himself.

"My apologies ... we have been most neglectful of your pleasure, have we not?" he murmured, his lips still brushing Anani's shoulder. He slid backward, causing his firstborn to whine in need, shifting to recapture Raziel's flesh--and at the same moment, Raziel set fangs into Anani's neck, biting deep. _Release her,_ came the Whispered command. Even in the throes of his pleasure, Anani heeded his Sire, though not without a low growl of frustrated need. He arched against Raziel's embrace instead, attempting vainly to both bare his throat and push himself backward, onto that half-seated cock, taloned hands reaching back to awkwardly scrabble at Raziel's hips in an attempt to draw them closer.

Raziel controlled Anani's struggles with ease; his firstborn was no fledgling, but Raziel's strength had been heightened by his trials, enough to match against that of Kain. Ziliah's wings flexed a bit, the feathers ruffling in some unnamed emotion, and she leaned back slightly, opening her legs to Anani as Raziel wordlessly urged him forward, his mouth upon Anani's neck and one taloned hand upon his hip. _It does not seem fair that she remain unmoved by our touch, whilst we suffer the pleasures granted by hers .... I believe you should rectify this imbalance, mine own ...._

The vines lacing across Anani's hips creaked as he was bent forward, tiny suckered pads like those of ivy losing their hold and then finding it again, twining tighter. He scarcely noticed the change in position, nor comprehended its implications -- not with one tendril pressing deeper, though every twist seemed only to accentuate the core-deep empty ache, the other winding thicker around Raziel's penetration, as if it too protested his withdrawal. So tight... "Master -- h-aah!" the least movement, as Anani writhed back into his sire, was a firestorm of bliss as the vine was bruised, more of its watery-thin plant juices seeping, slick between them. It hurt, as burning and sensitizing as the chemical heat of southern flame-tongue fruits; he needed more, he needed... _Sire! My Lord, my God, ah, please! Raziel!_

Anani was guided down until his chest nearly brushed the ground, where low-growing tendrils traced the air. They found skin and responded, curling across high-white flesh, catching at his nipples, clinging to the softer, darker rises. Wine-dark slips drifted to the deep green moss -- shed petals, as small flowers bloomed and faded and died, all in moments. And then Anani twisted, gasping as the onslaught was in a moment doubled, trebled. "Nnngh!" At the tip of his enwrapped cock, the bloom fell away, and the soft green developing pod -- small, spearhead-shaped -- teased at the weeping slit, pressing in, fraction by torturous fraction.

His cheek brushed silk, then skin. The hand in his hair urged him closer, and desperate as a drowning man, Anani gripped the Ancient's hips, dragged her to him. Clutching at any distraction, any thread of control, Anani pressed his mouth against skin so soft and smooth it felt like talc, sought out with agile tongue the tightness, the gathering moisture there. She tasted like the moment before rain.

Ziliah cried out as Anani's mouth fastened upon her flesh, her voice low and throaty with need. There was first one tentative lick, then another--then caution was swept aside as Anani surged forward, pressing his mouth to her slick folds, delving deep. She carded her fingers through his golden hair, marvelling at it; it was so ... human, so beautifully alien. Her people had nothing like it--God had made them from the shadows of the night sky and the blue of the deep waters, not the white and gold of the midday sun. Then she bucked a little, the movement aborted by Anani's grip, as she felt the first fleeting press of fang against her intimate flesh. "Ana-nh! That is ..." Vines twined even further, trying to bind them all together in a net of living green.

Raziel's own control, while well-practiced, was not infinite. Heeding the demands of his own pleasure, he sank deep into Anani once more, shuddering as the tendril wound around them twisted, sparks of fire from the sap scalding Anani's flesh even as it lubricated Raziel's own. It was a searing pleasure, and it was only with difficulty that Raziel withdrew enough to shove inward once again, setting a slow, inescapable rhythm of possession. Anani's flesh yielded, his firstborn twisting beneath him, and with each thrust the vines around and in them twisted, grew, leaving no place untouched.

Despite his urgent distractions, Anani was far from unpracticed, and his touch was sure – no matter if it was punctuated by gasps, by pauses as he pressed back into that most ancient of dominions, hips flexing as he moved with the thrusts. He twisted his tongue in the tight wetness, teased at the sensitive edges, withdrew to seek out the sensitive little node of nerve endings. He found instead a small rise of flesh, oddly rough and firm, but when he suckled just there, tongue flicking and prodding, fangs pressed dangerously along either side, the Ancient’s response was as satisfying as any woman’s.

Ziliah’s body jerked, a sudden seizing as if she would have writhed away but for Anani’s hard grasp, and a hoarse sharp cry escaped her lips. Her thighs trembled, winged wide. Anani snarled in momentary triumph, but with her release so too did the viney tendrils respond, squeezing in rhythm, and it was all suddenly far too much. Against his own will, without either Raziel's permission or encouragement, Anani came.

The sudden jolting pain momentarily blinded him -- thick silvery come slicked down the tendril encasing Anani's cock, seeping from the place where the tip of the vine pressed into his delicate slit. Shame warred with fury as he struggled in the grip of far, far too much sensation. _Aah! Please! Please -- Master, let me take her!_

Raziel growled, his grip tightening, talons sliding over armored skin as he surged deeper, feeling Anani's agonized pleasure. Blindly, he reached out for the touch of Ziliah's mind, feeling her now-familiar power surge and twine with his own as her climax rippled over them both. Mutely questioning, he sent Anani's hunger and his own, their desire; and found his answer in her body, her hips shifting even further upward, legs sliding even further open, blue skin twined with the ragged winding cloth of her robes.

 _Yes ... now, Anani!_ His own pleasure was not far behind, but Raziel held on, clinging to his control as Anani surged upward with a tormented snarl, his talons curving around Ziliah's hips as he buried himself convulsively into her body. She arched, keening, and Raziel could feel the sparks of pain along with the pleasure as Anani's length pushed past her sensitized lips, spreading her open without hesitation. There was no retreat from this; all three of them were too closely intertwined, bound by vines and power. And as Raziel thrust forward, he felt the drag of Anani's heat upon his swollen, needy flesh even as he shared Anani's mindless need and Ziliah's own as their flesh was possessed, taken and given with equal greed.

The touch and press of the vines was maddening as they played spur and binding both, growing rampant. Anani panted, fighting for the breath he had not needed for a millenia. The Ancient was so tight, so damnably, magnificently tight -- the vine enwrapping him began to bunch, the tip pulling free of his slit as he pressed inexorably inside. Thrusting into that delicious heat drew Anani's body from his Sire's rightful possession, pressing with painful bliss back into that thick cock made him yearn for the slickness he left; two irresistable temptations forged between then a jerking, harsh rhythm.

Anani had come just moments before, his cock still seeped thick silver, and yet he found himself even still upon the brink, so close he trembled with the need. "P--please!" he gasped. Clutching at the distraction -- any distraction -- he bit into the smooth blue skin before him.... and was swept under by the green.

Raziel cried out hoarsely, feeling Anani convulse underneath him, the flare of his firstborn's pleasure cascading through their conjoined minds, his power cascading upward, outward, seeking to consume and devour as the edges of it merged with the power of Nature, Ziliah surging upwards to meet them both. In a breathless rush he came, the surge of sensation taking him by surprise, convulsing as he thrust forward and filled Anani with his seed, forcing his firstborn deeper into Ziliah's flesh, hearing her sweet cries as the vines flexed in and around them, twining. _So good ... so beautiful ..._ he Whispered, not even sure whose mind he touched, whose flesh he possessed. He bit down, tasting the hot power of Anani's blood as their wings overlapped, cocooning the younger vampire in feathers and fine-grained skin as their power surged, devouring and seeping deep into the earth, the vines, their very bones.

Cradled there in the winged embrace, Anani shuddered in the grip of forces as irresistable as the pull of the tides. A unity took him, absorbed him, a throbbing sensation of life and renewal that was foreign to his long-undead flesh. And the power.... There was so much more than Anani could ever hope to absorb, to transmute, and he was helpless against the malestrom. Every drop of blood heightened the conduit, each swallow tore at the very edges of sanity. Were it not for Raziel, solid and cold as stone against his back, the twin points of ivory pain at his throat, Anani might have been lost utterly in that haze of verdancy.

So much sweetness... the moment seemed to hang for an aeon, for an infinite instant, time itself lost to the crash and flow of energies, life and death warring, dancing. But with Ziliah's bliss, her control over the playthings she had summoned faded. One by one, the tendrils dropped away, dissolving into fine ash and brief flashes of energy that sparked through already over-stimulated flesh.

The ecstasy lasted for an endless moment ... then receded even as their power did, allowing the world to return like a slow tide. It seemed a small eternity before Raziel could release his bite, open his eyes. His grip was still tight upon Anani, as Anani's was upon Ziliah, their limbs and wings twined together in an ungraceful tangle. Anani himself was shuddering, his eyes tightly closed, and Raziel shifted his head, and breathed in his firstborn's scent. _Are you well, mine own?_ Out loud, he added, "Ziliah? Are you unharmed?" The grass and moss about them had all spontaneously flowered, he noticed with idle amusement.

The Nature Guardian's breath was heavy, labored under much of Anani's weight. "Wha..." she started, then winced as a small movement pulled at the wound above her collarbone, the fangs still sunk deep there. She seemed more dazed than alarmed.

Anani's sending, when it came, was wordless, senseless, a silent cry of confusion in the midst of liquid chaos. Gasping, clinging with every facility he yet posessed to that steely thread of consanguinal contact, Anani withdrew trembling from the wounds he had carved. Thin red blood stained his mouth, trickled over sky-blue skin to discolor the soft new flowers.

A certain amount of concern began to filter through the exquisite lassitude of mind and body, and Raziel shifted, enrapped Anani tightly in arms and mind, placing a possessive bite upon the nape of Anani's neck. Sluggishly, he did his best to withdraw his power, disentangling it from the lingering threads of Ziliah's own, even as he reached out, firmed his touch upon his firstborn's mind. _Here. You are here, Anani, with me ... you are Anani, my firstborn, my bright one._

Ziliah's wings stirred against his own, shifting as she let out a breathless mewl of discomfort under their combined weight. Her own strength, while not a match to that of Raziel's offspring, was enough to shift them over, more to the side. Once Raziel apprehended her intention, he assisted as best he could, shifting Anani's limp weight until they were settled upon their sides, one wing furled, the other spread over both Anani and Ziliah's smaller form. "We may have ... miscalculated slightly," he said, his voice rough and low.

Ziliah frowned in mild concern, though her expression still was glazed. "He is not so... durable as yourself?" she murmured, turning under the mantle of Raziel's wing and making slow effort to struggle up to one elbow. The motion pulled at the twin punctures just over her collar bone, and she winced. Gathering a handful of the silk tatters from the remains of her robes, she pressed the fabric there, to staunch the wounds.

Raziel's strong mental contact was returned desperately, Anani's relief all but palpable. His shivering was eased under the touch of Raziel's mind, but slowly. Gradually, his eyes slit open. Anani turned his head, needing the sight of his Sire, body arching back a little into Raziel's, into the softening cock still in him. It was a tentative movement, more as if to remind himself of his place, his allegiance and his devotion.

 _Yes._ "Yes," Raziel echoed out loud, caressing Anani's side, his stomach with long, careful strokes. "Welcome back, my Anani. You did well." Despite all his reservations, his own offended pride, Anani had been obedient--even to surrendering, all unknowing, into the grip of two creatures with world-shattering power. That he had been almost swamped by the tidal surge of that power was no shame; Raziel made that clear, the touch of his mind upon that of his firstborn clear in his approbation.

"Anani is quite ... durable. There are few moreso. But that does not make him proof against the power held by a Guardian ... or by the Divine Benefactor," he said in answer to Ziliah's question, using the Ancients' own title for himself for the first time. "It is that which has affected him so, I believe ..."

As if summoned by the sound of his name, Anani stirred further, reaching upward to entangle his talons with Raziel's own. "...m-my lord," he whispered. "I had not imagined ..." For a moment, he thought he had touched the entirety of the world ... and lost his own self in so doing.

Anani's talons slid smoothly betwixt Raziel's where they rested over his belly, and for a moment, he permitted himself to relax, even in the alien presence of the watching Ancient. He understood more, now, what Raziel had implied regardng this race's magical prowess -- Anani was a mage of no small ability, but to harness the whole of the world.... Anani licked his fangs. The taste was rich, loamy, wrought through with magics he could scarce begin to comprehend. There was power here, and a certain amount of wisdom, perhaps, in... cultivating relations with the Ancients. With a slowly developing sense of luxurient satiation, Anani turned his head, sought out his Sire's mouth, offering up the blood still on his lips.

Raziel accepted the kiss, his tongue flicking over Anani's bloodied lips, deepening it until he could taste Ziliah between them, verdant and full of life. With a small, satisfied growl, he finally broke the seal of their lips, only to lay his mouth upon the soft underside of Anani's jaw, his gaze moving to where Ziliah watched. She never had answered his earlier question, he realized. Untangling one hand, he reached out to her, smoothing talons over the nearer edge of one wing. "Anani did not drink too deeply?" he asked again. It was difficult to tell the healthy color of a creature whose skin was as azure as the sky, though her heart still pounded a steady rhythm.

Ziliah's eyes were wide as she watched Raziel set his fangs lightly at Anani's throat -- the younger vampire did not so much as flinch from what, to an Ancient, would have been the threat of a fatal injury; indeed he seemed to welcome the bite -- then withdraw. The act was almost playful, like the way two sated hunting cats might idly groom and nip at one another. She blinked at the question. "I am well," she said, though she did not relax the pressure she applied to the wad of fabric. She glanced aside, searching out her wide belt and the pouches there. The leather strip was close by, though it had been slit through -- and when had that happened? -- but the slender blue vials in one of the pockets were undamaged.

Raziel watched with a certain amount of concern as Ziliah searched through a pouch, and finally pulled free a blue potion. Ancients were so fragile, in so many ways--he had wanted Anani to show her only pleasure, but it seemed that was nigh impossible with an elder's talons and teeth against such soft, vulnerable skin.

Anani followed his Sire's gaze, and tensed a little as he watched Ziliah drink the potion. They were close enough that he could feel the magic contained within the vial prickling at his skin, and despite her obvious ease, he could not help but wait for the cries of agony which, thankfully, never came. A Razielim would never subject themselves to such magic; drinking acid would prove as beneficial. But Ziliah only sighed in relief as the potion did its work, and lowered the makeshift bandage from the now-visibly healing wound.

The Nature Guardian moved more easily now, too, as she shifted to lay back beside Anani, her wings silky-smooth under Raziel's own, still outspread. She was warm with exertion, hot against the vampires' flesh, her eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. "That was... most satisfactory," she murmured, running her talons once more through Anani's white-gold hair. She would have to let Bashmath know -- provided the other Ancient had not already discovered that fact for herself. She yawned, ducking her head a little.

Anani arched an eyebrow, glancing back to determine what Raziel made of the Nature Guardian's bizzare and blatant threat-snarl.

Ziliah patted the far-elder vampire awkwardly as he tensed. "Not to worry," she sighed, words slurring as she drifted towards sleep, "I promise. No more tentacles today."


End file.
